Meet in the Middle
by SpokenShepard
Summary: Hollyn Lavellan is the perfect middle woman; a meeting ground for mages and Templars, fire and shadow, Orlais and Ferelden, she finds herself tasked with brining together all of Thedas. But she has one secret. A secret that she is terrified will harm those she cares for. Will she stay concealed, or will her suppressed fire spiral out of control? (Slightly AU/human-elf MC)
1. One: Where to Begin (Updated)

_Those interested have always been curious as to how this will begin. How should it begin? How can anyone-author or otherwise-hope to do Hollyn Lavellan justice?_

_There is always the obvious beginning, a description of her physical form: red hair, mid-length and kept down so she could run her fingers through it; green eyes that contained more emotion than her laughing smile ever did; a slim nose, strong jaw and high cheek bones that were so uncharacteristic next to her small, elf-like ears; frame short enough to look dalish, but tan enough to make someone question if she didn't have some human in her._

_And she does. Part of the reason most started calling her Mid, in fact...but only part._

_The part that made up the rest of their reasoning was less tangible; constantly slipping past, like the shadows she lingered in, and yet never seeming out of place because it was her, through-and-through. The confidence in her eyes when meeting someone new; the curve in her smile that made all the difference between a jest and pure honesty. It was the small shake in her voice when she was scared; the place she put you in, and the threats she wielded if you tried to move; the secret she held so close that even those closest to her missed it until well into their 'adventure'._

_It was the perfect balance she held between human and elf, shadow and fire, mage and templar, Orlesian and Fereldan, serious and mocking, that made storming the Black City itself seem like a perfectly reasonable request to all of Lavellan's companions, as long as that request came from her._

_But how to capture that in words, there is no clue. What Lavellan managed was remarkable-no. She was remarkable. Full stop._

_But this is the thing she hates: speaking as if this is over, as if she is only part of a past that will inevitably be mixed and jumbled until future generations compare her to Andraste herself. We can't let that happen, though. We won't._

_So the impossible must be done once again._

_~Tethras-_

/*/

"Perhaps you don't understand the meaning of 'come here'."

The man circles around Terrel, lazily drawing the knife under my companion's ornate leather armor. The chest piece alone had taken Craftsman Arren days to complete, and although I bare no love for Arren, nor he for me, it wouldn't do well for us to arrive at the Conclave with scrapes and tears.

"What're you anyway, hm?" My hood is yanked down from behind, the bandit's accomplice catching strands of red hair. I hiss, but remain still, quiet. Brother and Sister lay just within the folds of my cloak, but I will not draw them unless need be. "You got the look o' a human, but us _shems_ don't got no pointed ears."

"Hollyn, do something!" Terrel pleads quietly, and the knife once dancing along his armor comes to rest along his throat.

"Not this close to the Temple."

"Hollyn, burn-"

"Terrel, _look at me_." I say calmly when his gaze begins to drift with the threatening knife. My clanmate quickly straightens, hand falling beneath his cloak in prepared understanding, but another tug in my hair breaks our gaze.

"I asked you a question, knife-ear." The man behind me hisses, twisting his fist so my hair drags my face near his. "The void are you?"

"I am a mutt." Is my simple answer.

With a cry of surprise, the man behind me finds his knee broken with a solid kick when I find substantial purchase and spin. My cloak falls as I throw Brother to Terrel and use the hilt of Sister to smash the man's temple. He crumples face first into the mud of the road, blood streaming from the wound.

Terrel already has the second man on the ground, arms pinned with his knees and a knife to his throat. Calmly, I fold my cloak over my arm and walk to them, peering down at the man.

"You bitch! Knife-eared bitch!" The bandit stutters. "Damned mutt! You and your elf pet-"

"Where are his weapons?" I ask Terrel, ignoring the vehement curses. "Please, give them to me."

Terrel draws a dagger from a smaller sheath at the bandit's thigh, then gestures to the man's sword, lying towards the side of the road where it had fallen after Terrel brought the bandit down. I take both, fastening them loosely to the belt of my leathers.

"You gonna kill me, huh? Sacrifice me to your heathen gods-"

"For the love of the Maker, why does everyone assume I worship the Pantheon?" I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Nevermind. Look: I don't want to kill you, alright?"

"You dare utter the Maker's name, you daughter of a whore? Your mother must have fought hard when a human man-"

I drop to my knees, placing Brother's blade against the bandit's throat. Just enough pressure, and I could draw blood. The man gasps, pink flesh raising against the metal, pressing, until he exhales. A thin red line now kisses his throat.

"I _don't_ want to kill you." I seethe, still calm, but inside my blood boils, hands itching against Brother's hilt. "But you are very quickly changing my mind, and I'm sure Terrel here would gladly run you through. To avoid that, I suggest you shut-" I press a bit harder. "-up. Am I understood?"

He can't nod, but the look in his terrified eyes says all I need.

"Good. So, here's how this is going to work: We will take your weapons. You will be tied up, left with food and water on the side of the road until a caravan comes along. With the traffic this road has been getting, your wait shouldn't be very long. You will not pursue us. You will not speak of us. And you will not repeat any of those foul curses as we walk away. I want silence."

Wisely, the man does not argue.

"Are you sure about him, Hollyn?" Terrel asks me after my plan has been enacted and we have begun our journey down the road. The young hunter glances back, eyes falling on the bandit.

"We are venturing to holy ground, _lethallin_. I won't spill blood near the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

Terrel scoffs, wiping dirt from Brother before handing the dagger back to me. "Their temple isn't _our_ sacred place. This isn't even _our_ fight. I don't see why the Keeper felt the need to send us. And why result to blades back there?! Hollyn, you have-"

I stop walking. Terrel continues on for a moment, hands waving as he talks, until he finally notices my lacking presence at his side.

"You will not question the Keeper, and as her First I will not tolerate your whining. While we are in these lands, I am merely a hunter, and I will remain so until we return to the clan. Am I understood?"

This is the same tone I used with the bandit when explaining our deal. Terrel has heard it many times before, when in talks with nobles and lords whose lands we were passing over. It is my 'compromise' voice, and he has just had a very firm reminder of what happens when someone does not need it.

"Yes, Hollyn."

/*/

Three days later, Terrel died in the first blast when the Conclave exploded.


	2. Two: Mark of Hope

At first, the Mark hurts.

In the beginning, when I first found myself laying in a jail, chained and bound like some feral dog, I couldn't care-could not fathom the inkling of a _single damn_-for what the two women before me were saying. With each minute, a new explosion rocked the walls, sending dust and pebbles down like some archaic rain. But the world could cave in on us and I wouldn't have cared, because the rocking of the walls signaled a new flare of pain to sear my hand and spread the green tendrils already established there further. At least if the jail fell, I would be crushed beneath it and the pain would be relieved.

By the time Cassandra dragged me from the bowels of a chantry into the bright sunshine, the mark wound up my forearm and was beginning to investigate the real estate of my elbow. As she led my stumbling form through Haven, insults and jeers being tossed about by the refugees and residents, every gaze was drawn to the sky.

"Oh, shit..."

Cassandra had agreed. "Whatever it is, we must know how it is linked to you. Otherwise, that Mark will kill you."

The green gash painted a grisly picture across the heavens, storm clouds spiraling and moss light arcing out every time a new crash shattered the horrified silence. I didn't need to be told what was pouring forth from the Fade and into our world. As we journeyed on to a forward camp, that became clear soon enough: demons, horrors, shades and the like, jumping from rifts and driven mad by their sudden change of scenery.

That was where things started to get hazy, because the forward camp was apparently closer to the Breach, and my Mark didn't appreciate that so much. I remember an elf and a dwarf, Solas and Varric, battling near a smaller rift. Cassandra was forced to arm me then, giving back the two daggers she had taken when they jailed me. Brother and Sister now in my grasp, our party of four made short work of the demons from the rift, and then...

Then Solas had grabbed my arm, thrusting it towards the tear. On instinct, as if some part of my soul knew what needed to be done, I reached into the fade with a single tendril of light, focusing, searching for some purchase and _there_! The rift inverted, mended, healed, sealed and shut, as if nothing had ever been there in the first place.

There had been hope, then. The emotion was blatant on every face, except perhaps my own, which was still contorted in a rush of pain. Hope that perhaps I could do the same to the Breach above us; perhaps this would be simple; perhaps, by some maker given luck, this elf given unto them could restore the sky without so much as a lifted sword.

Sitting here, now, in this makeshift war room, in a makeshift camp, that moment is what sticks with me. To Cassandra, Varric, and Solas, it was a flash of hope. To me, it was a time for tunnel vision, as I suddenly felt very small with the realization that _I_ _alone_ wielded the power to close rifts and halt the growth of entire breaches; the fact that the fate of Thedas suddenly rested on _my_ shoulders; the fact that no one seemed to be sure of what to do, only that _I_ needed to be there to do it.

What '_it'_ turned out to be was closing the Breach that stemmed from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And I couldn't do that. I could only halt the Breach's growth, rather than mend the torn sky, which only meant one thing: this journey wasn't done yet.

An unseen weight presses my chest, making every breath a shallow, strained prayer even as Cassandra finally speaks, filling the room with the haze that always comes after a decision is made.

"Whatever we were before, we are now the Inquisition."

* * *

><p><span>AN:

After this, the story should pick up. I apologize for all the rushed canon-story, but my reasoning is this: almost everyone understands the premise and first twenty minutes of the game. Should I spend six chapters reiterating what you already know?

Otherwise, thank-you for your time!


	3. Three: The Hinterlands

"So, she's supposed to...what? Walk in and let them chain her up? Because someone already did that once, and look how it turned out."

I glance over my shoulder at Varric, frowning. The dwarf rolls his eyes at Mother Giselle, yet backs off, hands raised, to wander the crowds amongst the crossroads. When I nod to Cassandra, she wordlessly follows, leaving the Mother and I alone.

"Forgive them." I request. "These lands have been rough, and we only arrived yesterday."

"These are trying times for all." Mother Giselle acquiesces, gesturing to a low stone wall in offering. I decline, and she kneels to aid a refugee on a cot. "The Chantry will speak to you in Val Royeaux, Herald. How they receive you is up to the Maker. In the interest of smoothing things over, I will join you in Haven once my task here is complete."

I nod. "Thank you, Mother Giselle. Your assistance is valued. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to before leaving this region."

"Maker go with you, Herald."

"And you, Mother."

The Crossroads proper is bustling, perhaps with more activity than these few huts and this dirt road is used to seeing. Carts of goods and belongings line the ditches, families huddled around fires, and Inquisition soldiers mingle amongst them, protecting what little they can. Reinforcements are obviously lacking, and sorely.

The path here wasn't long, but Mage and Templar bodies littered our wake, leaving us tired, worn, and it wasn't even midday yet.

"What now, Lavellan?" Varric asks once I've joined Cassandra, Solas and him on the road.

I take in a deep breath, looking past him at the surrounding hills. Stronghold ruins sat just beyond a rise, and I had it on good authority that a Templar base lay within. The Mages were further up the path, past the farms and dug in at Witchwood. Until the warring parties were dealt with, innocent refugees were left pinned here, struggling against the cold and wildlife.

I tie back my hair with a string of leather, pointing up the way. "That road leads to the farms. Master Dennet is within, and he has our horses. But until this battlefield is cleared, no one is going anywhere, and these refugees will continue to suffer."

"May we assume you have a plan?" Solas asks, leaning on his staff.

"Stick around long enough, Solas, and you'll soon learn that I _always_ do." I grin, unsheathing Brother and Sister. "Cassandra, how do you feel about knocking on a few front doors?"

She offers a small smile. "At your word, Herald."

* * *

><p>Our party returns to camp hours past sunset, beaten and bruised, but victorious in our conquests. The Templar stronghold had been brutal, but a mix of stealth and distractions proved more useful than tramping about like gruffalo within the enemy camp and ruins.<p>

Witchwood had been the true challenge.

Terrified mages, some half-crazy with blood magic and some innocent yet too scared to do anything other than fight, all now litter the cavern where we found them. Women and children were spared, but the men fought savagely, fire spouting from their eyes, the undead rising at all angles until we were surrounded. Demons broke their leashes and grew feral. It was a frenzy-no longer about clearing a battlefield, but about simple survival from one minute into the next. Panic thickened the air as the mages quickly realized the enemy was not just those who had stormed their refuge, but the spirits they had fought to bind previously. Rage demons tore apart any in their path; shades lingered and pounced upon abandoned children; corpses shambled towards targets until they were brought down in a flurry of fire, or daggers, or even arrows.

But the moments after were the worst. A lingering silence fell; for once, even Varric didn't have words. The bodies around us-men, women, children-were mostly innocent mages, driven mad by a guilty few. None of them deserved a sullied, cavernous grave like the one they were given.

Wisely, no one spoke until we reached camp.

"Herald." A scout nods in recognition. "Commander Cullen arrived at dusk with forces to aid the refugees."

A bitter laugh spills from my lips. "How _generous_ of him." I seethe as Solas and Varric limp past, into the circle of tents. Cassandra lingers at my side, though the Seeker had taken a nasty burn to the arm in Witchwood.

"Where is Commander Cullen?" She asks for me, sounding just as bitter and only a bit more weary.

The scout gestures in the vague direction of the requisition table, hidden behind a tent and a roaring fire. Voices trail past, and a soldier suddenly scurries across camp and into the firelight, disappearing not a moment later with a gathering of scrolls in her arms. Her retreat gives us our direction.

As we walk onwards, I attempt to calm my shaking nerves, particularly because I have no interest in shouting needlessly at the Commander. For all I know, he is a good man, if a little sheltered by the Chantry. Having learned none of his merits myself, I have had to go by what Cassandra and Josephine pass on whenever the topic arises.

He is an ex-templar, and an avid strategist. Calm, cool, confident, and yet shy when discussing anything too personal. Smarter than most, well schooled, a devout Andrastian, and-Josephine giggled when she said this-"Tolerable to look at, as it is."

Rounding the corner of a tent and finding the Commander learning over a map of the area, I have to agree with the Diplomat: Cullen is handsome. Well-kept blond hair is cut short, leaving a strong jaw and gold-brown eyes open for the world to see, only shaded by a bit of stubble that peters out around a scarred upper lip. In the firelight, his chest plate shines as he turns to face the Seeker and I.

"Commander." Cassandra nods. "We had not heard you were to join us."

"The situation here was more dire than we originally anticipated." He explains, glancing to me when I say nothing. "Are...both of you alright?"

I scoff. Cassandra nudges me.

It is understandable why he might ask. Looking at Cassandra, her hair is mussed, dirt clinging to her armor and face, stray smears of blood still painted over her leathers and blade. She clings to her wounded arm, eyes squinted but head not bowed beneath the pain. The only safe assumption is that I must appear similar, although I traded a burn for a shallow cut across my thigh in the earlier battle.

Ignoring his inquiry, I cross my arms over my chest. "Pray tell, Commander, what exactly your forces hope to accomplish here in the Hinterlands."

"Word has been gathered regarding a stronghold of either faction hidden further within this area. With some luck," Commander Cullen glances down at the map. "We may uncover them."

"You're a few hours too late, Commander." Cassandra tells him. "I'm afraid your men might be resigned to clean-up duty."

In spite of my mental pleading for her to remain, the Seeker spins on her heel and tramps off. In vain, I hope the stubborn woman will at least find a healer for her arm. Her absence leaves the Commander and I alone, bathed in an unsure silence until he clears his throat and speaks.

"May I assume your injuries are from clearing the strongholds?"

"You may." I nod before offering a small smile. "There is still plenty for your forces to do here, fear not. The help is appreciated, if not by Seeker Cassandra, then by the men and women on the Crossroads."

He shakes his head, running a hand over his tired face. The dancing light catches his scar, making it appear harsher than it had before. "I can only apologize for not arriving sooner, it seems."

"You are here now, and the soldiers can still do good." I repeat. "Mages and Templars may still linger in the area. They should provide sufficient practice for your recruits. But, if you'll excuse me, I have a wound I need tended."

Without waiting for a response, I begin to turn and take my leave.

"Herald."

My feet pause. "Yes, Commander?"

"I can only imagine what you faced today." The sincerity with which these words are spoken-as if he knows, as if he has witnessed horrors such as these before- causes me to cant my head over my shoulder, raising a brow. He appears tall, serious and honest, in the firelight. "Never mind what the chantry may whisper in the shadows; you are stronger than any expected."

And suddenly I find myself considering that perhaps the Commander understands, for I am not broken; only weary. My will has not snapped; only bent. My path has not stopped; only paused. For I seek no escape, nor will I until the Breach is closed and Thedas is set back on her feet.

Perhaps Cullen sees this, and knows exactly what strength a moment of weakness takes, no matter how small it may be.

There is no proper response to this unspoken connection, but I find one in a whispered 'thank-you' as I limp off, feeling nowhere near as formidable as whatever the Commander sees.


	4. Four: Of Chantry and Templar

"Where to next, Herald?"

"Hm...you know, I've heard that Orlais is quite beautiful this time of year."

* * *

><p>On our return trip from Val Royeaux, I have been quiet for a total of an hour-give or take three days-when my self-control runs out.<p>

"She 'elf-ed' me."

"Herald."

"The fancy-hatted blighter 'elf-ed' me!"

"It was expected-"

"They called me a savage! Raised by wolves, and then that bitch pulled the 'elf' card and-" I grumble and adjust my grip on the reins. "Mamae didn't raise no savage."

I had been right on one account: Orlais is beautiful this time of year, and Val Royeaux in particular. The fruit trees lining the boulevards are just beginning to blossom in the moderate temperature, stray petals lending a sweet scent to the city air and creating a carpet of pale foliage to replace cobblestone roads.

But even these delicate preludes to spring could not shed their beauty on the main square of Val Royeaux. A mob had gathered around a chantry platform, erected in front of the gates and home to three revered mothers by the time we arrived. As expected, they spewed blasphemy and condemnation, accusing 'this savage elf' of murdering the former Divine; of dissenting and leading this 'impious Inquisition'.I took the high road and plead for help against the real enemy: the giant Breach in the sky that threatened all of Thedas, but the words fell on deaf ears.

What no one had expected-not Cassandra, nor the mothers, and certainly not myself-was the Templars, led by Lord Seeker Lucius. Those 'pious protectors of mages and warriors of the chantry' paraded a small company into the square, presumably to arrest 'those heretics' (namely me), until Lucius scaled the platform and backhanded the foremost mother.

My distaste for Templars only soured further from there on. The Lord Seeker repeated the chantry's opinions regarding the Inquisition, but went further in saying that the Templars were better than all of this, and that their talents had been wasted for too long. Lucius turned his holy nose up at the thought of helping an upstart revolution so far beneath him.

The Templars abandoned the city soon after his speech, leaving our party an opprotunity to explore the streets. We spent three days in Val Royeaux, and managed to accomplish quite a bit: First Enchanter Vivienne offered her services to the inquisition as a Knight Enchanter, a new connection joined us-Sera, an elf with 'friends'-and the mages contacted us upon our exit, Grand Enchater Fiona extending a formal invite to Redcliffe.

My mount whinnies, setting my thoughts back to the road. Next to me, Varric snorts and shakes his head. "That 'elf' thing's really been eating at you, huh?"

"Maker, yes!" I groan, slumping in the saddle. "I'm only half-nevermind. Cassandra?" My tantrum had, I shift the conversation to a more productive topic.

The Seeker fidgets atop her horse. "Yes?"

"Is there any insight into what Lucius might be scheming?"

"No..." Trouble crosses her eyes. "He is not the man I knew, Herald. This...heretical behavior is-"

"Heretical?" Varric offers.

Cassandra frowns. "Yes, although we shouldn't make assumptions until we return to Haven. There, we can pool our information and consider our options."

"Haven sounds quite nice, Seeker." I agree. "Somewhere where no one wants to kill me for this Mark on my hand will be a lovely change of pace."

* * *

><p><span>AN: Hi! Due to some technical difficulties with my laptop, I've been forced to use my tablet to publish this chapter. This isn't a problem, seeing as these are written from my laptop and tablet in tandem, but uploading and editing them on-site tends to be...finicky. As this continues-and until the difficulties are rectified either by using my main PC or my laptop is fixed-updates may not be every-other-day-ish, as I have been doing. They will still continue, as I love this story line (only a few more chapters until Skyhold, and the next one or two will contain some character dev. for Hollyn!). Anyway, thank-you for your understanding as I encounter these problems, and I'd be happy to hear what you think of the story so far! Reviews, follows, and favorites are always appreciated and taken into careful consideration.


	5. Five: The Storm Coast

"I...would prefer that we _didn't_ go anywhere near the coast."

"This mercenary has offered up his entire company, Herald."

"I'm aware. But Haven..."

"It is on our way."

"Is not!"

"Herald."

"Fine!"

/*/

Varric noticed the moment we could hear waves crashing along the shore of the Storm Coast. The change wasn't much: a tensing in my shoulders anytime Cassandra or Sera mentioned the sea; the inability to remain still when in camp, our tents overlooking the vast, roiling, dark body of water before us. Even after we had found the Bull's Chargers and returned to camp post-recruitment-that qunari was _gigantic_-I still couldn't release the tension within my chest, and I believe Varric knew it.

"We need more Spindleweed for the tea, or she won't be able to breathe again."

"It's dusk, Nevvins. I'm not goin' out there so late. Spiders, you know? 'Sides, she has enough tea to last the night if she nurses it."

"I won't take that risk."

"And who you gon' get to head down there, hm? If they ain't asleep already, they'll give ya the same speech I've done."

I finally look up from the firelight. My attempts to drown out the sea had been successful for the most part, but it left me to listen as two scouts argue from across the camp, voices hushed and yet loud enough to be heard past the incessant sprinkle of rain. Next to me, Varric takes his eyes away from his book for a moment as if to judge what I will do, rather than to regard the scouts.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance?" I call to the bickering man and woman. They jump, but quickly turn on their heels and salute.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am. It's nothing we can't handle on our own."

I stand, tightening my cloak around my shoulders. "No, it's obviously something." Brother and Sister lay behind the log and I slip them into the cross sheath at my back. "You need herbs for the tea? A concoction to assist in breathing, if I'm not mistaken?"

Realizing that I will be going somewhere whether they protest or not, the female recruit nods. "Yes-Ann has been having trouble with the cold and wet. She needs a brew of elfroot and spindleweed to breathe, but we're running low on the spindleweed."

"I'll fetch some, then." I walk to the edge of the awning, biting my lip at the steady drizzle. "Where are the greatest clusters near here?"

"Right along the coast."

"Shit."

In all honesty, I should have seen that coming: the fact that Spindleweed grows best along rivers and seas is common knowledge to any herbalist. But I've opened my mouth, and I suppose that I really can't shut it now.

"I'll tag along, if you don't mind."

I look down at the cloaked dwarf beside me, Varric having set his book aside to sling Bianca across his back.

"You sure?"

"Of course!" He laughs, stepping out into the rain, brandishing his arms wide. "Who doesn't love cold rain and darkness for a good cause?"

"Maker..." I hiss before following him. We trek down the trail to the Waking Sea, hoods pulled tight around our cheeks and steps careful against the slippery slopes of mud and rock. But every considered step brings us closer to the water-to the 'raging' sea that probably isn't all that raging to most, but really is so deep, and dark, and awful for me.

When we break onto the beach, I stop. Varric trumps on until he notices a lacking presence at his side.

Returning, he crosses his arms. "I'll take a wild guess,"

"Varric, don't."

"You don't like the water."

I sigh, running a wet hand over my equally wet face. "It's not my favourite thing."

"On a scale of puppies to the undead, how much do you hate it?"

"Yes."

Varric laughs. "Shit, alright. Walk, and tell me what the void I'm looking for then."

There is no deterring him, so I gesture onwards and we begin to scour the stretch of beach. I linger ten paces from the sea at all times, while Varric casually meanders through the surf, scattering pebbles and veering to the left whenever the water laps too close to his boots. Whenever he trips over a Spindleweed, I point it out and wait as he pauses to procure the herb from its rocky dwelling. When a decent bundle has been accumulated, we begin tromping up the beach once again to camp.

"Thank-you." I say once the glow of firelight is finally in reach.

"No problem," Varric shrugs. "Also, your secret is safe with me."

"A minor disinclination towards water is not a secret."

"No..." Grinning, Varric stops walking. "But a _pre-existing fear_ of water is."

I stare after him as he turns and trots into camp, bestowing our procured goods unto the scouts.

"Varric?"

"Yes?"

"Please-"

"Yeah, yeah," Varric shoots a smirk over his shoulder. "I won't."


	6. Six: Tevinter Time Travel

"Are you sure, Herald?"

"Leliana, you asked me what I thought."

"I'm only concerned in the interest of legitimacy. There hasn't been word out of Redcliffe for days now. The village is oddly...quiet, according to my scouts."

"So?"

"You could be walking into a pit of vipers. We should wait until some word filters out."

"Or we-meaning me-can do this the simple way."

"Which is?"

"I'll go get word myself."

* * *

><p>Our beds in Redcliffe are the best things I have seen in days. What was only a few minutes-and, when it really mattered, a few seconds-to everyone else had been a hellish toil of hours and hours for Dorian and I-and technically Cassandra and Varric-, because time-travel tends to skew everything like that.<p>

"It had to be time-travel." I groan into my pillow. "Who thinks: 'Let's put more unstable holes in the Veil!', as if it's a good idea?!"

From the door, a male voice chuckles and I don't even have to look to recognize the unfamiliar tone and timbre. Our newest resident magister-and really, you only need one-waits until I peek up at him to speak.

"And who puts unstable holes in the Veil in the first place?" Dorian mimicks my tone, although the sarcastic phrase sounds much more natural in his refined manner of speaking. "Are you feeling better?"

"We were just tossed through time, Ser." I sit up, although the pillow looks awfully tempting. "Why wouldn't I be just fine?"

"Now, I didn't mean it like that." He enters the small cabin, leaving the door open and pulling out a chair to sit across from me.

"I apologize." I smile in earnest. "I will be fine-our job was done, and now the mages are allies of the Inquisition."

"You musn't forget meeting King Alistair."

"Oh, well yes, but we didn't really meet." I wave away the thought. "There was much too much yelling at the time. It was nice to see the king in person, though."

"Makes you wonder why the Hero of Ferelden left him, hm?" Dorian smirks.

"I suppose..." A longing glance is tossed to my pillow once again, then I give my full attention to Dorian. "Blonde, stuttering, and handsome has never really been my type though."

The mage laughs. "Now, why does that not surprise me?"

I frown at his outburst, confused as to how we wandered from a more pressing topic to one such as the King of Fereldan's love life. "How are you faring, Ser?" Dorian sobers at my question, so I elaborate. "I gathered that Alexius was your mentor. Are you troubled by all this?"

"Not really, no. Future him wanted to die, and present Alexius is still..." Dorian looks for the right word, keeping that proud air about him as if applause will start at any moment due to his mere existence. "He is alive, and he knew when he was bested."

"Ferelden has given him into our custody." I inform the Tevinter. "When all this buisiness with the Breach is done, there will be a trial. I can promise no more."

Slowly, Dorian nods. "Give the man his dues. Now, enough about me. Truly," He leans forward, searching my eyes with a serious gaze. "You handled yourself exceptionally well back there. But we saw some things: promise of a demon army, the assassination of Empress Celene, and not to mention your compan-"

"Herald?"

Over Dorian's shoulder, Cassandra stands in the doorway, patient and...real.

Alive.

So quickly, so readily, her and Varric gave their lives, knowing they were walking into their death as that heavy door closed behind them. But why? Because they knew the price of our time travel failing? Because they understood that, in some aspect, they had to die in order to live? To prevent this future-red lyrium festering in corpses still breathing, fade and world becoming unclear and undefined-from ever occurring, they had to buy Dorian and I precious time?

Demons screamed and strained against the doors. Minutes, then hours passed, but Dorian bade his time wisely and our portal was almost ready, fueled by magic and pure will.

The doors blew open. Lelianna's voice rang out the chant as arrow after arrow found their home in the chest of a demon or Venatori. Cassandra and Varric's limp bodies were tossed, discarded by the door like useless trophies of war. On instinct, I took a step to help, but Dorian grabbed my arm, forcing me back, into the readied portal even as I kicked and fought to save-

A quick glance at Dorian reveals he hasn't missed the pain that only clings to my features for a mere moment, and I avert my eyes to the floor, running a hand through my hair.

"Yes, Seeker?" My voice is strong, although I feel anything but strength. Once again, the pillow to my right seems so tempting.

"We can return to Haven in the morning. A few parties are requesting your ear, particularly -"

"Extend to them an invitation to Haven." I interrupt, closing my eyes. "But until then...I will not be seeing anyone."

Cassandra lingers in the doorway for a moment, and when I finally look up she is regarding Dorian suspiciously.

"Seeker." I say firmly. "Please, and then get some rest for yourself."

"...Of course, Lavellan."

Dorian and I are silent until she leaves, the door still open wide. The Mage gives me a knowing gaze.

He points to the door. "Whenever you need it, let that be a reminder."

"Of what?" I scoff bitterly.

"What you're fighting for; what this Inquisition represents." He stands, pushing his chair back to the corner. When Dorian makes to leave, I call to him.

"Ser?"

He stops in the threshold and smirks. "You've no reason to call me that."

"Dorian?" I correct myself. He gives a single nod, seemingly satisfied. "The Inquisition would be happy to have you with us in Haven."

Some pride has to be taken when one shocks a man such as Dorian, be he Tevinter or no. The silence drags, although Dorian restores the smug look I've become accustomed to within a few moments.

Slowly, he nods. "I would have asked eventually, you know."

"Oh, I know. Merely thought it would be better to save you the pain."

Dorian laughs, reaching and grasping the doorknob. "But it would have been so much more symbolic my way."

As the door closes with a soft click, I give in to the tempting pillow and succumb to dreams of the future, fitful and ever changing in their direction.

* * *

><p><span>AN: 

A general chapter, I know, but the next one promises a bit of Cullen/Lavellan bonding. Also, this chapter hints at my HoF!

Quick Cannon World State rundown: Alistair is king, and used to be with my f!Cousland Holly. They broke up at the landsmeet, she went to Amaranthine in DA:Awakening, and her and Nathaniel Howe are together. Not exactly cannon, I know, but I love him too much, and it really doesn't affect anything too terribly. As more head cannon things pop up, I'll explain them, although nothing is ridiculously complicated.

Thank-you for reading! I appreciate any feedback, and might need a little help in the future, so don't by shy! Say hello!


	7. Seven: Professional Punishment

"So...can I just...?"

"Hm? I'm sorry, did you say something, Herald."

"Nope! Nothing at all, Josephine! I'll let you get back to work."

* * *

><p>"Varric guessed that I have at least an hour until something life-threatening happens again. I sort of figured that extended to you, as well."<p>

Cullen's head tilts to the side, hesitant. "Oh?" Then, he chooses to humor me, the scarred side of his mouth lifting just a bit. "Any suggestions on how I should enjoy this hour-long freedom?"

"Yes." I kick at a chunk of snow, absently twirling Sister in my left hand, her obsidian blade gleaming in the sunlight-drenched-snow. "There's a logging camp just up the path a ways, and Threnn requires it to make new weapons for your soldiers. I also believe there is something of interest there for Adan, and I would like to look."

His moment of humor over, Cullen glances behind me at the recruits. "Really, Herald, I have to-"

"No you don't." I insist, sheathing Sister across my back and catching Cullen's arm when he tries to walk by. I shove him back to face me. "You really don't, because technically you're still working. The Inquisition needs these weapons, and as the Commander of said Inquisition you should inspect the materials these weapons come from. So..." Shrugging, I begin walking backwards towards the wooded path. "You're coming. Also, there's no way I'm going alone."

And then I turn and trot down the path as if I don't care whether or not he follows. Undeniably, I do; my training is just too strong to allow a minor emotion such as 'nervousness' through.

Upon returning from Redcliffe, mages in tow, preparations were quickly made to close the Breach, but somehow I found myself lost in the hustle and bustle. Everyone had a task, and it seemed all were intent on completing it. For once, no one was asking me for my opinion, and I didn't quite know what to do with this newfound freedom.

I eventually wandered past the camp, noting Cullen was lightly engaged with the recruits, then found my way to Varric's small fire by the wall that divided the chantry courtyard from most of Haven. He had been the one to suggest I find something for Cullen to do with our free hour of 'no saving the world', or else 'our Commander might continue to spend his days with a much too serious expression on his face'. I couldn't lie to Varric and say that the thought of getting to know Cullen wasn't tempting, but I didn't have to. The dwarf chuckled, winked at me, and mumbled something about how he should get paid for this shit.

So I sifted through my journal and found the remnants of some tasks the townspeople needed that I had simply never found time for. My walk to the camp consisted of spinning a way to present this to Cullen so that it would appeal to his workaholic nature, and presently I'm leaning against a tree, counting to twenty to see if the Commander takes me up on my offer.

"Eighteen..." Snow shakes into my hair as a bird lifts in flight. "Nineteen..."

"Twenty."

I jump from the tree as Cullen grins, amused, leaning in my place. He has shed most of his armor, replacing the 'furry Ferelden' look for a more simple tan tunic and black trousers. I run a hand over my hair, knocking the powder from it.

Cullen shrugs. "Forgive me. I've had very few chances to sneak up on rogues and that...the opportunity presented itself."

I laugh. "Fair enough, Ser. Shall we?"

He nods and we begin tramping a new path through the fresh snow, uncovering the beaten trail as we go.

"It occurs to me, Commander," I say as we walk. "That I don't know much of you."

"You've heard my history as a Templar, Herald. Beyond that, what do you wish to know?"

I had quizzed him in earnest about his time in Ferelden's Circle, and then regarding the years he spent in Kirkwall, but any other topic seemed too difficult to breach amongst Haven's camps. Now, in the woods, it seems possible.

"You grew up in Ferelden, no? Family, then?"

Cullen chuckles. "This hardly seems fair."

"A question for a question perhaps?" I suggest, and he consents. "Alright, so?"

"A brother, and two sisters. You?"

"My elven sister Serina, and my human brother Caible. Where in Ferelden?"

"Honnleath in the southwest; a part of the Arling of Redcliffe. It's not known for much, except this statue in the town square."

I glance at him. "A statue?"

"Hm. A recreation of a golem from Orzammar, or somewhere of the like. Anyway, it is my turn, I believe?"

"If you insist."

"What brought you to the Dalish?"

"An accident." Is my simple answer. Cullen notes the bluntness with a glance, but says nothing. "Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?"

"You mean...?" A slight blush tints his cheeks. I smirk. "Um...no. There was always the Order, and my family was in Ferelden."

"No one has caught your...interest, then?"

"That's two questions, Herald." He deflects. "But no...no one in Kirkwall."

I laugh, choosing not to linger on his cryptic confession. "Oh, I apologize! Did I make the chantry-boy blush?"

The red of his cheeks deepens, much to my amusement. "You picked this ribbing up from Varric, didn't you?"

"A lady never tells." I grin. "But Ser, if you stopped making baffling you so amusing, I would be less tempted to do so. Regardless," Breaking through the treeline, a cabin sits within the clearing, just before the wall of rock that surrounds Haven. The perfect area for a logging camp greets us, as well. At the treeline, Cullen stops, but I continue walking backwards, giving a deep bow. "I do beg for your forgiveness, Commander. I leave my punishment for such childish behavior in your hands."

Before my confidence wanes I spin around and slip into the cabin, nearly tripping over a stack of papers. Despite that obstacle, little else clutters the cabin aside from a cold fireplace, a bed, and a brewing station. Gathering up the papers, I examine them and determine these must be the notes Adan was looking for. I turn back to the outside, my nose buried in the documents, making sure to bump the door closed behind me.

"It looks like these could be for-" A snowball hits the wall in front of me, barely missing my nose by an inch. Ever so slowly, I tilt my gaze unto the Commander who stands just past the treeline, hands clasped behind his back and whistling.

When he meets my gaze, he shrugs. "What?"

"Was that my punishment?"

"Well, I had planned on hitting you with the-" His explanation is suddenly cut off by a snowball exploding across his left shoulder. "You can't retaliate on a punishment!" Cullen reprimands, stooping low to gather more snow.

"Can too!" I shout, rolling behind a stack of logs. The notes are set to the side as I begin preparing snowballs and stacking them to my left. "Besides, a snowball fight isn't exactly 'professional punishment!'"

"You never said it had to be professional!" A snowball flies over my barrier.

"And you never said I couldn't-" I pop up and fling one in the vague direction of where Cullen used to be. "-retaliate?" The clearing is suddenly empty, so I hesitantly stand, scanning, listening, for if he snuck up on me once, shame on him; should he be able to do so a second time, then shame on me.

A twig snaps to my left. I barely have time to dive over the stack of logs before a snowball is lofted. The projectile grazes my side, but I use my momentum to spring out of the roll and onto my feet, throwing snow behind me while I begin to run, stumbling through the packed snow.

"Oh, so close, Commander!"

"Stay still!" He laughs, his voice far closer than I expected. Rather than glance behind, I keep running, stumbling, throwing loose snow at every opportunity. Snowballs hit the trees to my left and right, each getting closer. As we reach the treeline where we first entered the forest, I get an idea.

In a moment of tactical genius, I swing around the last pine tree, grabbing a low branch and pulling. The bow resists until I release it, shaking the entire tree, snow cascading down just as Cullen catches up and lunges. We explode out of the treeline in an avalanche of snow and laughter, my genius burying us almost completely.

"Holy-" I clutch my sides in mirth, brushing snow from my face and sitting up. Next to me, the snow is disturbed and I reach over to help Cullen emerge, clearing the snow from his waist up. "I am so-" Another bubble of laughter cuts my apology short.

Rather than scold me, Cullen joins my laughter, his cheeks glowing from the cold and the exercise. His normally immaculate hair is disturbed by a dusting of snow and pine needles; the way the corners crinkle illuminates the shine of his usually serious gold-colored eyes. Sitting here, up to our waists in childish mischief and snow, Cullen looks happy and content, appearing his thirty years, rather than the thirty-eight the stress lends to his features.

My hand absently finds his arm as we snicker in the snow, leaning to rest my head on his shoulder. Cullen looks up, resting a hand on my knee. "That was-" He begins to say, stumbling just the slightest bit.

Behind us, someone clears their throat.

I gasp and spin, finding Cassandra staring at us from the main camp, along with every recruit and soldier lingering amongst the tents. At the gates of Haven, a cluster of nobles gawks in our direction, Josephine standing at the steps, pinching the bridge of her nose. No one moves; every jaw drops.

My face lights up with a burning blush. I close my eyes, biting my lips to keep from laughing as I finally turn to Cullen. His expression is similar to what mine must be, if not redder. Ever so slowly, we stand, brushing ourselves off.

"Um..." He mumbles, brushing snow from his hair.

"Uh...thank-you, Commander for..." I struggle to find words under the interest of what must be at least fifty people.

"Accompanying you." He mumbles, covering his face with his hands.

"That!" I nod, furiously. "For accompanying me to retrieve-um-these. On that note, I should present these notes to Apothecary Adan so he can...note them."

Cullen snorts, placing a hand over his mouth.

"Shut-up." I hiss, shoving him. He stumbles back into the pile of snow as I retreat, stomping past the soldiers camp, giving Cassandra a wide berth, and trotting up the steps to Haven. At the top, I turn and bow to the still wide-eyed nobles. "The Inquisition welcomes you to Haven, Sers. I do hope you enjoy your stay."

I mouth 'sorry' to Josephine as I slip past the gates.

* * *

><p>AN: Three things.

1.) Thank you for reading. Any feedback is appreciated.

2.) There was just so much snow around Haven! I had to!

3.) Shale. According to the wiki, Shale.


	8. Eight: The Void and The Light

"Anyone else just get that "we're all going to die" feeling, or is it just me?"

"Go."

"What?! Lavellan-"

"You'll make it! Go!"

* * *

><p>"Maker, it's cold."<p>

* * *

><p><em>Green. So much green. Dark, deep, roiling green, tearing at the sky, ripping the silence with emerald lightning. But it had closed. Mages poured forth their magic, and I had reached in, searching, feeling for purchase until there! The Breach closed with a firm yank. And Maker, before I fell, I remember the spark of hope that Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and even Dorian had twinkling in their tired eyes. Because we had done it.<em>

* * *

><p>"Just...move."<p>

My ribs protest with a sharp, unyielding cry, and my left wrist threatens to shake and shatter with the pain of the mark embedded in it. Or I suppose 'the Anchor' is a more accurate term, now.

* * *

><p><em>They had come during the celebration-Red Templars, led by a man that lent a horrified look to Commander Cullen's eye. An appearance by a strange Rogue, Cole, and then our battle began anew, fighting for purchase on trebuchets and burying their army under an avalanche, but only for a time.<em>

* * *

><p>"Focus."<p>

Wind whips at my torn armor, ripping at loose seams, biting against exposed skin until I no longer shake, all feeling to my extremities nonexistent at worst and numb at best. But what keeps me moving-lifting one heavy, frozen foot over the drifts of ice and snow, then another-is an ethereal beacon from atop the ridge.

* * *

><p><em>The choice was made. Cassandra, Varric, Dorian and I were to make for the last trebuchet, and cause one final avalanche, buying time for the townspeople's escape and potentially burying Haven in the process. The fighting raged on-four against four thousand-and the trebuchet was loaded. But there just had to be a fucking dragon.<em>

* * *

><p>"Where...no."<p>

Despite the cold, and the wind, and the ice and snow clinging to my lashes, the worst moments are when my beacon dims against the thick gales. In those moments, I am left to stand alone, frozen, waiting for the light to return. No Maker to guide me. No Andraste to shield my fragile spirit. Just the chill, and the pure, unadulterated feeling of being alone amongst the Void.

* * *

><p><em>The dragon came with a leash, and on the far end of that leash was a corrupted, Tevinter magister. He claimed horrors beyond belief: storming the Black City; seeing the empty throne of the Maker; painful, agonizing imprisonment for years; release, and a plan to ascend to God-hood.<em>

* * *

><p>"There."<p>

Just as the Void rushes upon me and I see the precipice of all, the winds curb and the beacon appears, a bit closer this time. Salvation teases the edges of my mind, promising warmth and respite if I can go just that much farther.

* * *

><p><em>Corypheus claimed I was an accident. That Anchor was his. He would take it back, for he would not suffer even an unknowing rival<em>.

* * *

><p>"Maker..."<p>

The Void soon meets me more often, threatening to pull me down. But the beacon gets brighter each time, closer, so warm and yet too far...

* * *

><p><em>Haven was buried shortly after I was thrown to the ground. Corypheus tossed me, and I had lunged for the trebuchet, kicking the release mechanism and bring forth an avalanche to end all. Then I was falling, diving into an abandoned mine shaft as snow created a deep, impenetrable grave. Yet, I didn't die.<em>

* * *

><p>"There she is!"<p>

The beacon is close-so close. Too close. I stumble faster, tumbling over the ridge, the Void chasing me, biting at my ankles, threatening to pull me back, out, away from salvation. But now I'm in the golden light, and the Void can't reach me anymore. Vaguely, the light turns into arms, strong and firm as they carry me. I curl into the warmth and watch as the Void retreats.

In a 'fuck you' gesture, I stick my tongue out at the darkness, then let the light arms wrap me up. It's all so peaceful...restful. Just a small rest. A little one. My eyes won't complain if they close. Just for a second...one second...

* * *

><p><em>"Herald!" Urgently. "Lavellan." Weaker. "Hollyn..." Gone.<em>

_"Is she-"_

_"No!" Urgently. "No." Weaker. "She can't be." Gone._

_"Place her in your tent, Commander." Shuffle. "We will do all we can, Seeker."_

_"Please." Urgently. "They need you." Weaker. "...I need you."_

_Gone._

* * *

><p><span>AN: I was dreading writing this chapter. I had written it three times before, and hated every single style I wrote in. Finally, this came about, and I have to say I am decently pleased. My goal was to illustrate her slow decent into frostbite and delirium.

And then there's Cullen's bit at the end, because we all know he carried the Inquisitor back to camp. He descends a bit in this, as well, although much less. But we start to see the cracks in his character and resolve.

Also, this sucked to edit on my tablet. So. Annoying. And yet so worth it. Anyway, thank-you for reading! Next chapter we are at Skyhold and things blow-the-eff-up. Also, I have more wiggle-room in the story. Prepare the character development and minor head-cannons!


	9. Nine: Tarasyl'an Te'las

_Crews work for weeks to assemble Skyhold. Their salvation and bastion were those crumbling stone walls; the musty, cramped barracks; the stable that smelled of horse although no mounts had been there for ages; the great hall where, if one closed their eyes, you could imagine the grandeur once encased around the shattered throne; gardens overgrown with vines and weeds; a tavern housing only spiders and mice; a tower promising knowledge, study, and subterfuge on each of its three floors._

_Amongst the chaos was our Lavellan: once Herald, now Inquisitor. She led them. She placed herself in the center and stepped up, one assumes willingly, to save all of Thedas. She commanded, and related, and nurtured that fledgling Inquisition, in that bastion of the sky, against that horrid magister. She seemed invincible. No injuries that the populace could see; no stress fractures or cracks in her armor in public; nothing but our strong, charming, meeting-grounds Inquisitor._

_But anyone is a fool if they truly believed that facade._

_~Tethras~_

* * *

><p><span>AN: Hi! I'll get to the point: 1) I understand the lore-squabble about human/elf relations only having human children. This _will_ be addressed soon. I promise. 2) The format of this chapter is from Varric's view, as if he were writing the story. You may remember that the introduction to 'Meet in the Middle' is written from the dwarf's POV as well, although in a much different fashion. As of 1/21/15, I performed an overhaul on the introduction, and it is written in the above style, which I personally believe fits with the tale much more smoothly. Thank-you for reading! I appreciate any feedback, and I respond too, with little to no biting. Promise.


	10. Ten: A Subtle Shift

I stare at the sword, laid flat and running the length of my desk: a golden hilt, reflected in the moonlight; the silverite blade polished and sharpened to perfection. So simple in its design, and yet intricate only when you really stop to gaze upon the thin, delicate engraving of the Inquisition's heraldry inset into the metal.

"Shit..."

Absently, I wander towards the open windows of my quarters. A surprisingly warm wind dances through as I stare down at the courtyard below. The doors to the grand hall are thrown open, and the sounds of a particularly joyous gathering can be heard coasting through the jovial night. And why shouldn't they be happy? The Inquisition now has an Inquisitor, a Herald, and a role-model. Not only that, but the whole realm of Thedas now has hope for better days and more blue skies, rather than the fade-torn green some had become accustomed to seeing.

But what of the woman who had been ambushed into being that hope, that Inquisitor? Solas had convinced me to lead the refugees through the mountains to here, Skyhold, our new home. Any scout could have headed that pack while I recovered from the injuries I'd sustained at Haven, but the people needed their Herald. So, I obliged. I silenced my pain long enough to get us here, and long enough to transform myself-unknowingly-into something more than just the Herald of Andraste.

Once in Skyhold, I finally allowed my wounds to be attended to. When I was found able to walk again, Cassandra ambushed me on my first hobbling stroll about the grounds. As we spoke, she led me up the main steps, stopping at the landing which looked out over nearly the whole yard. Those bastards asked me to be Inquisitor with every eye-every Maker-damned eye-turned to us! Josephine informed the refugees, Cullen rallied the troops, and I was made to observe as hundreds of people became one single body, united under one ideal, one symbol, and one Inquisitor.

I had to accept! I had to kneel and receive the sword Leliana offered, then stand as others bowed, saluted, and recognized my position. In the moment, I was on a high. Now, standing alone in my quarters, I can't help but feel sick.

A knock comes from my door. "Inquisitor?"

"Maker..." I mumble, running a hand over my face. "Who is it?"

"Commander Cullen, your worship."

This gets my attention, enough to where I bother crossing the room and leaning at the top of the stairs. "Come in."

The door opens timidly, my blond Commander glancing around before locating my frame. He is still in his finery from the party-a dashing blue shirt and pair of black trousers. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was simply sent to inquire about your health."

"Were you, now? Well..." I run a hand through my hair, ruffling it about. "Tell me, how are the festivities?"

"Tiring." He confesses before realizing what he has said. Brown-gold eyes widen. "I mean, it seems all are occupied and content, of course! Warden Blackwall even...um-I simply-"

"Grand parties are not your favorite, I take it?" I chuckle at his endearing stuttering.

Finally, Cullen smiles gently. "No, my lady."

"Well, it just so happens they are not mine, either. Shall we be hermits together, then?" Rather than wait, I leave him at the stairs while I return to my desk, procuring two glasses and a bottle of wine from the shelf behind. Then, I retreat to the balcony, sitting down at the small table out there.

Cullen joins me after a moment, content to linger in the doorway until I offer him a glass of wine. This seems to set him at ease, and he sits down in the opposite chair.

"Are you feeling well?" He inquires after a moment of reverence regarding the heavens above. The moon has just begun rising over the mountains, bathing the balcony in pale light.

"The pain comes and goes." I confess, adjusting to place most of my weight onto my left hip. "I won't be able to wear my armor for a while, or spar. Maker, even getting dressed is unpleasant, but not impossible."

"I've cracked a rib before, and I must say it never caused so much pain as to hinder daily routine."

My eyebrow raises, suddenly suspecting that a bit of misinformation has been threaded through the refugees. "What has Leliana been telling everyone about my injuries? She was very careful to let only the healer see me."

Cullen appears confused, then takes a sip of his wine, regarding the moon over the rim of his cup. "Her official report was a cracked rib and awful headache."

I snort, savoring the sweet Ferelden wine. "Oh, is that all?"

"I gather your injuries are far worse?"

"Three or four ribs, and my left wrist is swelling." To prove my point, I roll up the sleeve of my tunic and show the blue-grey color peppering the skin around my wrist. "You don't want to see the rest."

"Maker..." Cullen's eyes widen, leaning forward to examine the wound. With an absent gesture he takes up my wrist, running gentle fingers along the sensitive skin. "What transpired at Haven...I won't allow that to happen again."

"If you begin blaming yourself," I warn him in jest, attempting to ignore his innocent caresses. "I will have you placed on bed rest for a week, with some excuse such as 'strained health'. Haven was hardly a fortress, Commander. No one could have been prepared for what we faced."

"But now we have a fortress, and the Inquisition can be prepared, be it against an Archdemon or otherwise." His fingers hover against my pulse. "You were almost lost in Haven. That moment when you tumbled from the blizzard...I was-we were all relieved."

Cullen's error does not go unmissed, nor does the blush tinging my cheeks. Moonlight bathes his gaze-still observing my wrist-in a pale shade, lending more gold to his eyes than I've ever noticed, and the scar of his upper lip appears gentle now, rather than deep and foreboding.

The silence lingers, in which I find myself staring until his touch finds a particularly tender spot and I hiss, catching his hand.

"Forgive me!" Cullen freezes, looking unwilling to move lest he harm me again.

"It's fine," I insist, giving a soft smile and allowing his touch to linger for a moment too long. Releasing his warm hand, I take another drink of wine to cull the rapid beating of my heart. "Regardless, I cannot blame our Spymaster for her dishonesty with my injuries. I'm the Inquisitor now," My words come off with more of an edge than intended. "I cannot be so human as to be wounded; it would be unacceptable for the people to see me in such a state. But give me a small injury and I am relatable."

Cullen sets his wine down and regards me with an intense gaze, equal parts serious and penetrating. "You are not pleased with your title?"

It takes a long moment before I feel ready to respond honestly. "You wish me to confide in you, my military advisor and subordinate? Pray tell, where is the professionalism in that, Commander?"

"There is absolutely none, Inquisitor." He confesses, then smirks. "But, as I recall, professionalism has never been in your best interest before."

I frown, wholly disapproving of his offer, but not for the reasons we have discussed. In a final attempt to shake his inquiries, I make a small request that is sure to deter him. "If you are truly interested in my opinions and person, then I must say that I will confide to no one but he whom I consider a friend. And, as unprofessional as it may be, friends do not use titles."

The commander leans back in his chair, keeping eye contact through the motion. What I find in the golden eyes startles me, his answer apparent even before it is spoken. "Of course, Hollyn. I understand."

This shocks me. Truly, I am without words for the next few heartbeats, although what really seizes my throat is not how easily Cullen broke the wall of formalities between us, but how quickly I step amongst the rubble and accept its absence. This casual air that now descends over the balcony is comfortable, and feels right. It terrifies me.

"Cullen..." I mean to continue my thought but instead my lips merely test the feel of his name amongst them. "Um...I don't..."

"Perhaps I should not have been so forward." He apologizes, a blush tinting his cheeks, although his tone does not waver.

"You weren't!" I assure him, running a hand through my hair in frustration as I grasp at some unintelligible thing that seems to be slipping through my fingers. "It is simply that...I cannot tell you the last time I confided my worries to someone. It must have been when I was was twelve or thirteen and the Dalish took me in."

Cullen chuckles the way he does whenever he is about to speak of himself: a deep rumble that lifts the scarred side of his mouth enough to take away five years of stress and age, transforming him to the hesitant and inexperienced chantry boy that is hidden underneath all that militaristic strategy and confidence. "Perhaps we share more common ground than you expect."

I laugh slightly. "Is this the moment where we discover that one another hasn't had a true friend in years, and we suddenly find ourselves talking into the late hours of the night, telling pointless tales and simple secrets until the sun rises?"

Cullen shrugs, leaning his elbows onto his knees and clasping his hands in front of him, a surprisingly nonchalant move given his habit to worry and fret. "Only if you wish."

"Is that what you want?"

Golden eyes suddenly pass through some unrecognizable emotion, the corners of his mouth turning down for a mere second. "I-I believe so." I hold his gaze until he concedes with a more straightforward answer. "Yes."

"Hm..." Then, I turn to the moon, which has now risen above the mountain, making its presence known to all of Skyhold. The festivities still carry on below us, never having wavered once while we sat here in turbulent and uncertain change. "I've no clue what I'm doing."

"Neither do I." Cullen confesses.

"Fair enough..." I take a deep breath. "When I was younger, my sister Serina and I used to roam the marketplace of the city we grew up in, marveling at the travelers and merchants that peddled their wares along the street corners." A smile lifts my mouth. "There was this one time..."

* * *

><p><span>AN: And so the intrigue truly begins, gently, if a little sudden. Thank-you for reading! Feedback is appreciated.


	11. Eleven: Existence, by Sera

"Mother pushbucket frigging bastard shitebag pissface! Eat it, you lop-eared, son of an arse-nut rot-suck piece of...ugh! You're not gonna kill him?!"

"No, Sera."

"I brought you here to kill him! He's made people hurt!"

"I've an alternative, Sera."

"Whatever. I'm not speaking to you."

* * *

><p>"So really, you shouldn't exist, yeah?"<p>

I level my gaze across the fire where Sera sits, sprawled on her bedroll and looking dare I say contemplative.

I had assumed her earlier vow of silence would last the whole night, granting our little party some much needed peace and quiet after our unexpected battle today. Sera had promised this whole 'Verchiel March' thing would be a simple in-n-out job; let someone else rile everyone up, then slide in a back door to lift our reward. Bullshit.

Our reward was in the form of a disgruntled noble, who, rather than kill, I employed under the Inquisition's banner. Needless to say, Sera was _not happy_.

"You're speaking to me again?"

"You said sorry, and that's honest, innit? But ya also made a point: that fucker can help, right? Put him in service, an' see how he likes it. So yeah, I'm speakin' to ya."

Varric, who had been passing by on his way to his tent, stops mid-step. "Did you just...make Buttercup see reason?"

Next to me, Iron Bull nods. "Yep."

"Keep walking, Varric." I mutter, pointing him on his way until he does finally shake his head and turn in for the night. "I appreciate the consideration, Sera. Now, what was that you asked?"

"Why do you exist?"

"Well, the Chantry says that when a mommy and daddy dream about babies, the good fade spirits drop-"

Bull snorts, and I kick him.

"That's not what I meant!" Sera rolls and props herself up, frowning. "I mean, like you-a half-whatever. Why aren't you one or the other? Cause that's right, yeah?"

I laugh, running a hand through my hair. "Sorry, Sera. I had to."

"Didn't."

"She really did." Bull agrees.

"So did. But," I fidget against the log. "You're right; I shouldn't exist. Humans and elves mating only produces human offspring."

"I'm lookin' at fair evidence to say not."

"Sera, I'm essentially human." I gesture down my body. "I have the build of a human woman-just a rather short one, and maybe a little smaller waist. Really, the only thing elfy about me is my ears."

"So you're not human."

"But I'm not an elf, either. I'm both. And my ears aren't so pointy that they can't be hidden by hair."

"So, what? You a miracle?"

I chuckle at the absurd question. "Sera, my hand glows, I'm the leader of an Inquisition, and according to you, I shouldn't exist. Pick any one of those, and it's a miracle in itself."

"But all together, what are they?"

"A damn good joke?" Iron Bull suggests, earning another kick. My foot against the qunari's knee doesn't do anything, but it does make me feel better, so I resolve to scold him like this in the future.

"Will of the Maker?" I offer in a more serious tone, standing up and brushing off my leggings.

"Well, that doesn't help."

"Sorry."

"Piss off."

"Good night to you too, Sera." I begin walking to my tent, then pause just outside the entrance. "Oh, and Sera?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure not to dream about any fade-babies. I don't think anyone could handle a mini-you running around."

The shoe that is flung in my vague direction suggests she doesn't appreciate my comment, although Bull's laughter makes dodging the shoe totally worth it.

* * *

><p>AN: Sera was simultaneously easy and hard to write. Don't know how she manages that. Next chapter: Hollyn's vallaslin! Because yes, she has some.

Anyways, thank-you for reading! I appreciate any feedback, and almost always respond. Don't be shy.


	12. Twelve: The Vallaslin

"Lily, I'll require a bath and then you have the evening to yourself."

"Do you...require nothing else, miss?"

"No-don't give me that look!"

"I did no such thing. It is simply...you have that air about you."

"In this case, ignorance is best."

"Shall I bring up a box of rags for a bed and a bowl of water?"

"You know me too well, Lily."

/*/

I've nearly made it back to my quarters with my spoils when a figure intercepts me in the center of the throne room. In a nightdress and robe, I almost don't recognize the First Enchanter, but her proud shoulders are near impossible to mistake, even in such dim lighting.

"You cannot keep such a thing, darling."

"Excuse me?"

"A puppy will not be beneficial to your image."

I look from her, to the puppy, then back. "But it's a fierce war beast!"

"No," Vivienne shakes her head, regarding the small mabari in my arms with scornful eyes. "It is a mongrel that will make you appear weak to any who see it."

"It will make me appear human. The loyalty of a dog can be just as inspiring as any low cut robe."

One delicate eyebrow raises, acknowledging the slight but not reacting. "Very well, my dear. Dote on it if you must."

As Vivienne floats away on her air of self-importance that I'm still not sure I trust, the puppy in my arms stirs, blinking up with bleary, youthful eyes. I scratch it behind the ears, and it yawns, capturing and suckling the end of my finger, whining slightly.

The promise of Mabari puppies had been the highlight of my week amongst the chaotic construction and repairs being made to Skyhold. A million things demanded my attention, and I couldn't leave for I was still healing and expecting a guest any day now: a friend of Varric's whom he has yet to name, but seems to place Cassandra on edge. Today was occupied by the repair of Skyhold's main gate, where I could actually be useful because none of the soldiers were small enough to squirm up into the inner-workings of the mechanical bits, and I happened to be the perfect size. Some minor acrobatics later, and the gate could be raised and lowered without so much as a creak.

This evening, the puppies had been declared old enough to begin training. I waited until nightfall, dismissed Lily after my bath, and snuck into the stables-damp hair, nightgown and all-to lift one of the young mabari. I'd almost chosen a strong looking pup with confident eyes and thick shoulders, but then a whimper scattered some hay and I had found what must be the runt of the litter, terrified beyond all belief and looking underfed. I'd sympathized and tucked the puppy to my chest.

"Let's get you some food, sweet thing." I coo, quickly scurrying through the main hall and down the stairs that lead to the gallery. No servants linger in the drab room, and I find none past the door and in the kitchens. I allow the puppy to waddle around on the ground, setting about the task of locating where Cook hides the leftovers from dinner. Tonight had been roast and stew, or so I'd heard from Sera and Bull. To repair the gate took longer than anticipated, carrying on well past dinner.

In a short while I have the stew warming by the hearth and I've sat on the counter, the mabari in front of me, whimpering. "Come, you need to eat, bae-bae." I hold a piece of roast out, close enough so the pup will see it, but far enough so it will have to come closer if it wants the morsel.

The puppy whines, stops, then takes a little step forward. I extend my hand a bit more. This gesture seems to encourage him, so he comes forward on another waddle, and I bring the meat closer. Proceeding like this, a full two minutes pass before the mabari and I meet in the middle. His soft tongue laps out and gobbles the meat, then he pads the rest of the distance and curls into my lap, looking up expectantly with intelligent eyes.

"That was impressive."

I jump at the voice, nearly startling the mabari. At the door to the kitchen stands Cullen, smiling.

"Maker, Commander! You can't sneak up on someone like that."

"Only you, it seems." He chuckles, then walks over to examine the dog. "Is this one of the hounds the Kennel-Master has been cultivating for weeks now?"

"Maybe." I grin. "This one is the runt of the litter, I believe. He was not being cared for properly."

"And you've gained his trust so quickly?"

At that, I merely shrug. "Meeting in the middle tends to garner trust much quicker than if you make someone come to you. The same applies to mabari, it would seem."

"You plan on keeping it?"

"I will not have him cast out merely for being small."

"And have you thought of a name?"

"Actually, yes." I pull more roast from behind me and scatter the chunks across the counter. The mambari yips and scrambles towards the food. My legs now free, I slide off the counter and adjust my nightgown. I stoop to retrieve some of the dinnerware, but a strong hand suddenly intercepts and captures two bowls from the shelf. Feeling slighted in a juvenile way, I frown at Cullen. "May I help you?"

"I'm afraid I missed supper as well." He explains, turning towards the hearth. When the fire light curls into his hair, I notice the shine and realize it must be damp. "Allow me, if you will."

Absently I fidget with my own wet hair, the short red locks pulled back into a tight bun. "Why were you absent from the dinner table?" When he sighs and drops his head in frustration, I laugh. "Oh, they can't be that bad!"

"You're serious, aren't you?" He scoffs, ladling stew into our bowls. Although his posture is tense, Cullen smiles in such a friendly, grateful manner that I cannot help but feel eager to connect through our conversation. "The recruits we've received have been nothing but trouble from the beginning. Maker only knows how he does it, but there is this one young man who always-_always_-finds a way to shirk his obligations and spend time with the maids. It is a miracle of the worst kind!"

I laugh as he gives me a bowl of stew and we both perch on the counter. "Perhaps you should consider handing him to Leliana. It sounds like this young man has a talent worth exploiting."

"Charming a maid out of her decency is not a talent."

"But avoiding your piercing gaze is." I tease.

With a spoonful of stew in hand, he pauses to consider this, then agrees. "Perhaps. I will speak with her. Anyway," The puppy, having eaten his fill of roast, pads over and lays between me and Cullen, looking sated and sleepy. "What have you decided to name him?"

"Huh?"

"The mabari." Cullen scratches the dog's ears.

"Oh. Da'mi." I answer.

"Is that...elvish?"

I nod with a mouthful of stew. "It means 'little blade'. A term of endearment, really, but..."

"It fits him." Cullen reassures my choice with a smile. "Are you fluent?"

I shake my head. "No one is-not even the Dalish. They merely flaunt the language more than most."

"Inquisitor-"

I raise an eyebrow at Cullen to correct his address.

"Hollyn." He sets his empty bowl to the side. "I haven't known very many Dalish, but those I have always refer to the Dalish as..." Cullen struggles for a word.

I roll my eyes, annoyed at the topic. "'Their people'?" I suggest. He nods. "They are not _my_ people. I was not an outsider amongst them, but I will never be considered a true Dalish."

The words come out harsher than intended, and Cullen fidgets. "I apologize. I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's fine. The Dalish were simply my mother's people, and never mine." I twine my fingers through the necklace hanging just inside my nightgown. "I didn't like the way they treated all elves as one, big conglomerate with an obligation to our past, and those who ignore that obligation are lesser beings."

"Hm...I didn't know you were so bitter about this." Cullen crosses his legs under himself, completely sat on the counter now. His blunt observation is surprising, but I don't feel slighted in the least. "You say the Dalish accepted you, though?"

"Yes." I release my necklace. "Quite readily, in fact. They...there was an empty role no one else could fill. I performed the clan's rights, earned their trust and was accepted. I still remember the day they gave me the vallaslin..." I look up from the memory. Cullen is utterly confused-brow furrowed, mouth hovering in thought-and trying poorly to hide it.

"Hm..." He mumbles, as if unsure whether or not he may ask a question.

I take a guess at his inquiry and stand, brushing away a few loose strands of hair from the back of my neck. The skin is slightly raised where my tattoos begin, swirling across my shoulders and disappearing underneath the nightgown. "The face tattoos you see on other Dalish? Those are their vallaslin, or 'blood writing'. It shows they are an adult within the clan. Most receive designs according to their occupation and the god associated with it." Glancing over my shoulder, I give Cullen a honest smile. "You have questions. Do not be hesitant to ask."

Cullen, now pulled from the reverie that my vallaslin has somehow put him in, runs a hand through his hair and shuffles off the counter, gathering our bowls. I let my hair fall back down and scoop up Da'mi, cradling the small animal in my arms and afraid that somehow I had crossed an unseen line of his, ignoring the fact that it was _my_ vallaslin being shown.

"I assume yours are not traditional?"

"You mean since the tattoos are on my back? You'd be correct." Scratching Da'mi behind the ears, I consider how to explain this a vaguely as possible. "Since I was not one of the clan, but I was required to have them to fulfil my role, the Keeper thought of something that kept all parties content: the vallaslin was to be placed upon my shoulders, back, and torso, completely avoiding the face."

"And its meaning?"

The corners of my mouth lift at his question. "To quote the Keeper: 'for she will be a bridge between two worlds: a middle amongst two extremes, both in her power and in her body.'"

"Because you are human and elf." Cullen interprets, having placed our bowls away and coming to stand in front of me, busying his hands with Da'mi.

"Among other things...yes."

We remain in silence, both obviously unsure how to continue. I had bared my blood writing to him, after all, and although he can never fully _understand_ the gravity of something I'd done so casually, there is a spark in his golden eyes that suggests maybe-just maybe-he _feels_ the weight of that singular action as heavily as I do.

If I was still among the Dalish and the Keeper found out I had shown any part of my Vallaslin to a 'shem', I would most likely be driven from the Clan, whether or not they needed me. The markings tracing my back are to show my heritage among 'my people', meant as a symbol of pride. In the eyes of the Dalish, this morsel of their history is meant only for elves, to be kept and hoarded as one would hoard treasure or food.

Even as I was meant to be a bridge between humans and elves, the Dalish tried their hardest to make me 'theirs'. I could not speak to 'shems'; I was never meant to leave the camp; and that which they had bestowed unto me-the vallaslin- was to never be laid under human eyes, for the tattoos-and the skin they lay in-belongs to 'the eyes of the people'. To muddle an already sullied bloodline would be adding further insult to my heritage.

But there is something freeing in knowing that a pair of golden eyes has seen even a part of the vallaslin: this promise that someone else etched into my flesh years ago. Even still, perhaps I have fulfilled the oath; have become a bridge, but not in the way the Keeper envisioned.

"I like to think I am doing what the Maker intended when these," I gesture my head back. "Were given to me. The Keeper will not be pleased, but...I am."

"Regardless, they are beautiful, Hollyn." Cullen says absently, not really understanding the words until they leave his mouth, which hangs open after the last syllable, shocked.

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued to poke the line between us just a bit. "'Beautiful', hm?"

The blush that lights his cheeks is endearing as he looks anywhere but me. "Um...I suppose not just...Maker, it is getting late, is it not? Forgive me for keeping you, Inquisitor."

I smile and shake my head, stepping towards the kitchen door. "I suppose I can. Goodnight, Commander."


	13. Thirteen: Fallow Mire Fears

The Fallow Mire is disgusting. There is no other possible way to word the distaste I harbor for this patch of land in the dregs of Ferelden. It constantly drizzles; the only 'dry' areas of land are small and interconnected by thin strips of muddy, treacherous dirt or decaying bridges that could send you plummeting into the cold, miserable waters at any moment.

After a week, I become convinced the sun does not shine here; perhaps the Maker considered the Mire not worth the expense of precious sunshine. The darkness and damp air seems to breed filth, and the undead stir restlessly in their drowned slumber. After finding our soldiers that were captured down here, and consequently recruiting a group of Avvar to the Inquisition, our next task had been to figure out exactly why the undead seemed so animated within these murky waters.

Scout Harding was quick to inform us that 'undead + disturbing the water = bad' until we untangled the source of the reanimation, and no one-not Backwall, nor Varric, nor Vivienne-had to be told twice. Our resident Enchanter quickly offered to return to Skyhold and send Dorian in her place, seeing as he has more experience with corpses than any of us combined. I certainly did not object as it meant I could stay away from the water for another few days.

But then one of the scouts had a revelation-a glorious, rest-disturbing revelation-that sent Blackwall, Varric and I tramping through the Mire once again, searching for pillars that seemed to be the cause of the walking dead. A few hours, 153 corpses and six close calls later, I bring down the last corpse on solid ground while Blackwall and Varric wade in from the water.

"Remind me why we didn't wait for Sparkler?" Varric grumbles as he climbs up the hill to join me at the main ruin, which consists of a stone platform and single pillar with scattered stairs and crenellations dotted around the circumference. The structure didn't look particularly ominous, but there certainly was an air around it that the stone feel...alive.

"Because," I hiss, kneeling to recover any loot from the re-killed corpse. "I hate it here. Now, we simply wait for Dorian and head back to Skyhold, whereas before there would have been waiting, and complaining, then more waiting, and we would of had to do this eventually."

"You've a point, I suppose." Blackwall shrugs, stooping to assist in my recovery efforts. "Putting it off would make the battle more miserable in the long run."

"Listen to the nice Warden, Varric." I tease the dwarf as I stand and wipe my daggers off on a stray pile of leaves.

"Oh, using my bitching to cover up your own discomfort. Real leader-like there, Inquisitor."

"Maker help me, Dwarf..." I sigh, catching Blackwall's raised eyebrow. "Just so Varric doesn't regale you with an explanation later, I don't like three things, two being the undead, and water."

"And the third?" Varric asks as he slings Bianca across his back and we begin to gingerly make our way towards camp.

I glance over my shoulder. "Why, mouthy dwarves who ask questions I purposefully did not answer, of course. What else?"

Varric and Blackwall both chuckle, and the former grins up at me. "Can't fault me for trying."

Eventually, I return Varric's words with a smile and we continue on to the camp in relative silence, our splashing footsteps only interrupted by the patter of rain on the bog trees and now-still waters.

Once within the circle of tents and glow of camp, each of us settles down for the night amongst the scouts and soldiers that take residence on the far edge, keeping watch over the shadows. Armor is peeled off, then I curl up with a book under the awning of my tent, still close enough to feel the fire's warmth and make use of the restless reading light as it dances across the pages of The Western Approach, Vol.1.

It isn't until the fire has dwindled and Blackwall has turned in that I stir from my place, joints stiff and cracking as I make my way over to where Varric sits, reassembling Bianca after a cleaning.

He looks up when I approach, the spectacles he rarely wears perched low on the bridge of his nose and a stray screw hanging from his mouth. "Inquisitor."

I seat myself next to Varric on the log. "Templars."

The dwarf pauses in his fiddling for a moment, glances at the fire, then returns his attention to Bianca. "What?"

"The third thing is Templars. Their addiction to lyrium is..." I shudder. "I sympathize, but prefer if those in the throes of lyrium withdrawal stay far, far away from me."

Varric nods. "Understandable." He mutters around the screw. "Bianca will protect you if we run into any."

I laugh, patting the stock of Bianca as I stand. "Thank-you, Bianca." Then, picking my way over the log, I make my way to my tent, stopping just outside the entrance. "And, Varric?"

He doesn't turn around but rather inclines his head ever-so-slightly in my direction. "Hm?"

"Thank-you, as well."

Perhaps it's an illusion of fatigue or the dying light, but I swear the far side of Varric's mouth lifts in a gentle smile, rather than a smirk, suggesting that perhaps this cocksure dwarf doesn't hear those words nearly as often as he should.

"You're welcome, Hollyn. Sleep well."

"You too, Varric. You too..."

* * *

><p><span>AN: Honestly, I love the Fallow Mire, but Hollyn doesn't. Thank-you for reading!

Also, the next chapter is required, and revealing, but I had to be...careful. I'll probably give a preface on it, but just keep an open mind, and do be honest, because I don't have a beta and I like the way I fidgeted with Cullen's character.


	14. Fourteen: No Work in Bed

"Do you require a fresh candle, Inquisitor?"

"Yes, please. Do that, and you may have the rest of the evening to yourself, Lily."

"Thank-you, my lady."

* * *

><p>What begins as one fresh candle soon grows into two, and then a third as I shift my work to the bed in order to protect myself from the night's chill. The days have steadily been growing warmer, and yet the moon still brings with it an icy wind to descend mercilessly upon Skyhold in the late hours. The sun has barely set, and already I find myself encased in a nest of blankets and pillows, occasionally pausing in my work to stoke the fire at the far end of the room.<p>

Although this time I can blame the cold, I have found myself utilizing the grand bed in my quarters as more of a workspace than a place of rest quite often. Each nightstand houses a candle and ink pot, several quills laying ready in an orderly fashion; missives are stacked to the left, by the foot of the bed; reports by the pillow I never use; letters and maps lay folded and rolled by the baseboard or leaning between the floor and a wooden post.

Thankfully, on the nights when I fall asleep tangled somewhere between the soft white bedding and the lilac purple quilt Josephine had ordered for me as a gift-that woman never ceases to amaze me-I never move much and my meticulous organization is rarely disturbed, if at all.

Upon returning from the Fallow Mire, stacks of papers and messages await me, so that evening I take up my common place in the center of my bed, dismiss my maid Lily, organize everything to my liking and then set to work. Da'mi curls up on the rug by my bed, occasionally opening one eye to scan the room until he is satisfied with my safety. I always reach down to pet him then, shaking out the cramps in my writing hand.

But the determination I began with soon fades in the face of exhaustion, and I find my eyes drifting shut, lulled by the secure warmth of the fire and throws before the sun has even fully retreated behind the mountains.

* * *

><p><em>"Do you see them, Lethallan?" A wiry, wise hand points past the willow trees and into the clearing. Several men in heavy, bulky armor stalk around, pacing, as if watching, waiting.<em>

_The young girl nods slowly, tugging at the braid over her shoulder. "Yes, Keeper."_

_"You must never go near them. Your mother brought you to us for a reason. Those shem Templars are not meant to keep you safe. Those men are uncertain, ever changing and unsteady, with no greater interest than your destruction."_

_"I can feel their lyrium, Keeper. Do they take it?"_

_"They do, dearest. And they come to crave it. Pray you never see that."_

_Four weeks later, she did. She saw one of the very same Templars float down the river and wash up on the banks. They assumed he was dead. When the children grew brave enough to creep over and poke his limp form, he sprang up, dark hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot and crazed. He caught her ankle as the other children scattered despite her screams._

_"You have it! I can feel it! Give it to me!"_

_A strong current caught his body, dragging him back to the river, but he wouldn't let go. Where his fingers clung, she could feel bruises form as they were both swallowed into the deep water. It was dark. Cold. She couldn't breathe. Something was holding her under, keeping her down, bubbles forming in place of her silent screams. She watched the bubbles float lazily to the surface even as she thrashed about, until they broke against the current, so close and yet out of her grasp._

_But it was so cold, and so, so dark..._

* * *

><p>"Lavellan?"<p>

I'm up in the next breath, crouched at the end of my bed and Sister brandished in the bright candlelight, muscles still singing with the nightmare, breath still ragged and forced. Da'mi growls from his place on the rug.

"Hollyn."

Finally, I find the source of my wake-up call: Cullen, gaze steady, one hand resting at the baseboard of my bed, the other held out, looking ready to talk down a lunatic.

"Commander." I finally whisper, giving a single nod in recognition and slowly climbing from my perch, the stone floor cold against my bare feet. Remembering my state of dress, I wrap the purple quilt around my nightshirt and set Sister back against the mattress. My hands itching with the need to do something familiar, I pull a leather tie from my wrist and begin tying up what hair I can.

"Are you..." Cullen chooses his words carefully, taking a hesitant step forward. "Are you alright?"

I tilt my head, as if confused, then nod matter-of-factly. "Yes, I'm fine. Did you need something?"

A beat of silence drops between us. Cullen appears baffled but unwilling to further investigate the cause of my nightmare, which is just as it should be. No questions means fewer lies that I have to weave, and a smaller web that I must traverse each day. Nevermind the tension in my shoulders, or the fire under my skin demanding to be released; that can be dealt with later, after I oust the Commander from my quarters. Still, the nightmare burns.

"A report." He gestures to where a new stack of papers lay to our left. "The servants were occupied, so I thought I would deliver it myself. But I didn't mean to-"

"It was a nightmare, Commander." I yank at the hair tie, making sure it won't fall, then kneel to calm Da'mi. The Mabari halts his defense at my touch. "Entirely understandable with what is going on in the world."

"I suppose...wait." As if giving up, Cullen furrows his brow and shifts his gaze to something behind me. Startled and yet relieved, I gingerly stand, trying to find the source of his distress. Still, the nightmare burns.

"Um...I'm waiting. What?"

"Were you working in bed?"

"Oh..." My face heats up like a child being scolded.

"That's ridiculous."

"Excuse me?" Indignation blooms, so I step up to Cullen. Suddenly, the caring atmosphere turns tense in a pointless, wasteful standoff of squared shoulders and altered topics. Still, the nightmare burns. "Far be it from you to tell me how to utilize my quarters, Commander."

"As idealistic as this may sound, Inquisitor," My title becomes a mocking thing on his scarred lips, something that both pisses me off and excites me, because only friends would twist titles in such a juvenile way. "A bed is not a place of work."

"Oh really?" I laugh. "Do you have any other suggestions on how I should utilize this bed then?"

And just like that, I'm not avoiding the remnants of my nightmare within my veins, nor is he talking about the proper use of a workspace. This is something different, signified by the fire in Cullen's gold eyes and the distance between us: so far, and yet close enough to burn.

Now, the nightmare cools.

His voice a low rumble, Cullen flips my words on me. "You are a grown woman. Far be it from me to tell you how to utilize your bed, Hollyn."

"What if I ask nicely?" My feet move of their own accord, languidly slipping closer. "Give me your suggestions."

"That didn't sound very nice." He smirks as I drift onwards, my hand trailing along the baseboard until we meet in the middle. Cullen has yet to move, and I must admit a bit of surprise; by now, I would expect him to be a stumbling, apologetic mess of nerves.

"If you insist." I roll my eyes, staring up at him. For a full human, he isn't very tall, and yet his height still dwarfs me. "Please, Cullen?"

He approves my use of his name with a masculine grin, then leans forward, his tunic barely brushing the fabric of my quilt. "My suggestion?"

"Is...?" I tease, closing my eyes to breathe in his scent: a mix of pine, metal, and something sweet. It is more intoxicating than I expected, and my heart stutters, then stops altogether. Wasn't there some nightmare...?

"Don't work in bed."

A stack of papers is shoved into my chest. Cullen's grin is more innocent now, and he seems to take a bit of pride in the way my mouth falls open, shocked.

"If you feel the need to work late, my office is always open, Inquisitor."

"I'll...keep that in mind, Commander."

He nods, satisfied and shifts back to the formal, reserved Templar I recognize. "Good evening, Lavellan."

As he makes his way to the stairs, I stare down at the papers he has given me. Reports full of words, and yet I register none of them, my mind still swimming with his sudden change in demeanor. Part of me has to know where, for those few moments of charged conversation, the gentleman in him went.

"Cullen?"

He stops at the first step. I seem to have caught him off guard. "Yes?"

I can't ask. The words form, but they stay lodged, thick and heavy in my throat. "Forgive me...the nightmare made me act without thinking; put me up somewhere I wasn't expecting."

Cullen's inquisitive gaze softens into a gentle smile, those gold eyes lighting up with the soft glow of understanding. "I know. But you came back down."

He bows out then, leaving just as an earlier memory resurfaces: of Cullen, one hand on the bed, the other held out to me, looking ready to talk down a crazed lunatic. I thought I didn't need to be talked down from any height.

"Those shem Templars are not meant to keep you safe, Lethallan. Those men are uncertain, ever changing and unsteady, with no greater interest than your destruction."

But what of Cullen? What of just now, when I thought my Commander-the gentle Templar-finally showed his true colors and was, after all, just a base man underneath his manners and religion?

So...perhaps the Keeper was wrong. Thinking back, it stands to reason that the gentle Templar had never gone anywhere; he simply adapted, shifted with the topic so I could be calmed and righted, whether or not I noticed. There was never any intention of acting on the tension simmering between us; there was only safe, steady control against an uncertain, shaken...lunatic, of sorts.

I take special care stacking the papers from my bed onto the desk, every report and missive finding its place. Da'mi whimpers by my foot, having waddled over to express his concern. Sighing, I pick him up and deposit the puppy on my bed before extinguishing the candles and crawling into my nest of pillows and blankets. Da'mi has barely snuggled close before a dreamless sleep envelopes me, and carries through to the morning.

* * *

><p><span>AN: This chapter was the bane of my existence for several weeks, and I couldn't have felt comfortable posting this without the editing and assurance of the lovely MelindaOz! Any feedback is appreciated and considered; thank-you for reading!


	15. Fifteen: Goats?

"Can I just-you were throwing _a goat_ at Skyhold to avenge your son's death, but you think he was a fool in the first place and you only assaulted our walls _with a goat_ on principle?"

When the Avvar does not answer, Josephine steps forward. "Yes, Inquisitor, I believe that was the concept."

Laughter rises in my chest because the Maker must be playing some kind of joke, but I bite it down in favor of looking professional. "I suppose that is...understandable." I think for a moment. "This conflict was accidental, but it can't be repeated. I banish you and your clan-with as many weapons as you can carry-to Tevinter."

"My idiot boy got us something after all!" The Avvar chieftain throws back his head and laughs as the attending soldiers cut his bindings and lead him from the hall. The confusing mirth echos until he is well outside. I wait until most of the crowd has disbanded before standing from the throne and looking at Josephine.

"A _goat_?" I ask before a fit of giggles overcomes my composure.

Josie shakes her head slowly. "That was certainly...something."

"I almost feel sorry for the goat!"

This time, my Ambassador has to cover her mouth with one delicate hand to hide a smile. Recently, the lovely Montilyet heiress has been frowning more and more-well, it's not really _frowning_, at least not with her looks. The expression is more '_a slight concerned dip in the crease of her brow that suggested she might be thinking about something too hard'_. After Josephine's news this morning though, I can't blame her for being concerned.

Assassins from the House of Repose coming after you and your family is certainly something to frown about. In favor of solving this issue as quickly as possible, Leliana's agents had been dispatched to destroy the contract post haste, although Josephine was none too happy with the solution. True, it is less diplomatic than she or I would have hoped, but assassins don't dally in diplomacy; they work for results, and we would rather hope for good news rather than fear for Josephine's life each time there is a change in the guard rotation.

Mentally, I score one for friendship then run a hand through my hair, still grinning, and trot down the steps to the main floor of the hall.

"Am I needed for anything else today, Ambassador?" I ask over my shoulder.

"No. Enjoy your evening, Inquisitor."

"Thank-you. Should anything come up, I will be in the garden."

Because I like the garden. Skyhold's garden is generally a quiet, unassuming little sanctuary laid right in the middle of the hustle and bustle of a keep. Just last week the builders had finished renovations on the space: the chantry, once dilapidated and rundown, is now sparkling and bustling with chantry personnel; the well in the center of the garden had to be rebuilt entirely; vines around the gazebo had been trimmed back, a chess table set in the center; pots in the flower beds sprouted over with herbs and plants for alchemy.

Upon waking this morning, I found myself feeling more rested than I had in a long time, which surprised me. Nightmares usually leave me wide awake and doomed to fitful bouts of rest at best; instead, after Cullen left my sleep was solid and refreshing, not a bad dream to be had. That was unexpected, and it unsettled me to think that perhaps the gentle templar was the cause.

There is no telling what he had seen upon entering my quarters last night; what I had been mumbling or revealing about the inner workings of my past, because that's what the nightmare was-a memory. But if I learned anything in my time with the Dalish, it is that those two separate terms can be blurred so easily, falling into one another until they are synonymous, slurring together until they leak past defenses and seep into reality, bit by bit, revealing more than ever intended when waking. The ensuing exposure is...bad.

Before, someone finding out my secret would have been 'bad' in the same way finding out a ranked noble practiced blood magic on children would be 'bad': not good, but manageable. Now, as leader of the Inquisition, discovery would be 'bad' in the way a darkspawn magister tearing open the sky and attempting to end the entire world is 'bad': life-ruining, void-crumbling, oh sweet Maker no, horrifying. I'm already a mutt. To provide more evidence against myself would be diplomatic suicide.

So, the fact that I don't know how close Cullen came to finding out and yet he _still_ managed to talk me down _unsettles_ me.

Just a bit.

Which is bad.

This evening, the garden is quiet, as expected. Da'mi greets me at the door and then wiggles off with a 'yip' to antagonize a group of children on the far end, staying where he can always see me. One of the mothers offers a warm greeting as I pass by, intent to check on the herbs, but a pair of voices draws my attention towards the gazebo.

"Gloat all you like; I have this one."

"Are you _sassing_ me, Commander? I didn't know you had it in you."

This sight of Dorian and Cullen sitting down to a game of chess is so odd, I can't help but wander idly over, both intrigued and confused.

_Does he know?_

"Why do I even-Inquisitor." Cullen begins to rise when he sees me, knocking over a piece or two in the process. Steps faltering, there is a moment of pause before I continue on, my will steeled.

_Does he know?_

"Leaving so soon? Does this mean I win?" Dorian teases, having missed the hesitation. Cullen glares, but sits back down.

"Are you two playing nice?" I ask, leaning against the post closest to Cullen.

"I'm always nice." Dorian assures me. The men turn back to their game, but after examining the board I can't say this round will last much longer; the Commander has Dorian deadlocked in three moves or less.

"He is just bitter at having lost the last game." Cullen explains, maneuvering a pawn forward. I raise a brow at the move, but say nothing.

_Does he know?_

Dorian rolls his eyes, taking his turn. "It was luck."

"It's not. I have you in three because _I'm good at this_." The Commander's voice drops ever so slightly, and I have to look away. His deep, smug timbre ghosts past to smother the air as it slips into my lungs on a small gasp.

Dorian smirks at me, having noticed, but says nothing. After a moment of contemplation regarding the board, he raises his hands in defeat and rises. "Don't get smug. There will be no living with you."

I watch the mage go, regaining my wits, then look to Cullen. "That was impressive."

_Does. He. Know._

"Yes, well..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I should return to my duties-unless you would care for a game?"

_He doesn't know_. "Prepare the board, Commander." After taking my seat, I help him arrange the pieces. "Where did you learn to play?"

"My sister." He answers. "She was a natural, and would get this stuck-up grin on her face every time she won-which was _all_ the time. My brother and I use to practice for hours in hopes to beat her. The look on her face the day I finally won..." Cullen almost seems lost in the happy memory until he gestures down. "Your turn."

I hadn't even noticed his move. Taking a moment for strategy, I advance a pawn. "You've mentioned your siblings before. Where are they now?" In an attempt to appear nonchalant about the question, I flip my hair to one side and lean on my palm.

"They moved to South Reach during the Blight." Momentarily, Cullen frowns. "Between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven't seen them in years. I don't write to them as often as I should."

"You've-" a childish squeal of joy rises from the far side of the garden, and we both look over to see Da'mi jumping around a small girl, one of servant's daughters. I laugh, then turn back to our game. "As I was saying, you've been a busy man."

"That doesn't justify it." Cullen shakes the topic off. His posture tells me to leave it where it lies. "Have you played much before?"

I grin and shift a knight. "Yes. Mostly with my brother, Caible. He enjoyed stopping and thinking through his actions, while you couldn't get Serina to sit still for two minutes, although she would have been good at this game. Strategy always made sense to her as she was going through it."

"What an interesting dynamic." Cullen's eyes scour the board with the practice of a well-learned man, looking for any holes or weaknesses. I intend to make sure he finds none. "Which are you?"

I stop, because I have never thought about it. Da'mi waddles over and curls up on my foot, his playmates having left for the evening. Absently, I lean down and scratch his ear. "I...don't know. Both methods translate well to me, I suppose."

"The middle woman again, hm?"

I laugh. "You're catching on, Commander."

Cullen moves a rook and then quirks an eyebrow at me, his smirk raising that scar of his. I remain confused until he chuckles and gestures to the board. "_Hollyn_."

"Oh!" My cheeks flush in the next moment. "Oh. Titles; of course. I apologize."

"Show me a good game, and I can forgive you."

It's my turn to smirk as we both lean forward and settle in. "Alright, _Cullen_. Let's see what you've got."

* * *

><p>Three pawns, one knight, and a bishop later, Cullen and I have fallen into a comfortable, studious silence, the air of competition overtaking the need to talk quite considerably. That is, until Cassandra passes by, sees our unneeded and ridiculous focus towards the frivolous matter at hand, and makes a lighter 'disgusted noise' than usual before continuing on her way.<p>

Cullen leans back then, looking over at me. "You know, I think this is the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition, or related matters. I can't say I mind the distraction."

Da'mi stirs against my foot. "We also haven't broken out into pointless tales until the sun rises, or snowball fights that end in our mortification." I quip.

His cheeks tint, but he focuses on the board. "The night is young."

I laugh at the empty jest. "Yes, well...perhaps we should spend more time together."

The phrase has left my mouth before I can even fathom _what_ I've said, or _how_ I've said it, or the ramifications of _having_ said it. Our eyes meet, both of us hesitating just too much to make this seem natural. Cullen, to his credit, soon softens and smiles, only providing honesty as he clasps his hands in front of himself.

But surprise-and something unrecognizable, sounding just off of 'hope'-laces his voice. "I would enjoy that."

Forming a habit, my lips move with no consultation. "Me too."

We turn back to our game then, enraptured in this new silence, still comfortable but warmer now, tighter, closer in our own little space than I would have ever allowed before; closer than is wise to allow. And just as I move my queen to checkmate his king, my imagination plays another small trick on my poor, shock ridden mind:

Cullen gives a minute, tiny shake of his head and whispers 'you said that', with the utmost reverence that I can't begin to imagine what he means.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN**: Seriously, I don't know why he says that. Because of the torture he went through in Origins? Because she's real, and not the expression of a demon? Maybe.

I mashed together a bit of the dialogue between Leliana and Cullen playing chess, and Dorian and Cullen, because the Commnder's voice at one point is just...damn.

Also, it might not have been clear last chapter, and I tried to make it clear this chapter, but no one knows Hollyn's little secret (no spoilers). She's a rogue to all of them, and to herself. Her full story will become clear all in due time, I promise. Thank-you for reading!


	16. Sixteen: Trying to Do Better

Da'mi's incessant yipping wakes me from another night of restful sleep.

"Inquisitor!"

"No..." I mumble, pulling the sheets over my head, and resisting the interminable early morning light that pours past the open doors of my balconies, dancing across the stone floor and skipping into my dreams. The click of little claws on the floor signals the mabari's retreat.

Soon, Da'mi barks from the base of the stairs, undeterred. Another round of banging begins again, this time more urgent. "Inquisitor, Cassandra is trying to kill Varric!"

I suddenly find myself on the floor, scrambling to locate a pair of leggings or breaches-something to wear under the large white tunic I've slept in. Eventually I place one leg after the other into some black leggings and scramble down the stairs, throwing open the door. Leliana and one of the recruits-Mikael, I think-crowd the hall outside.

"She's _what_?" I seethe.

"Our guest arrived this morning." Leliana explains calmly, even as the recruit wrings his hands. "Seeker Pentaghast is...not pleased."

"Damnit..." I push past them, hurrying down the hall. Da'mi scampers ahead, eager to be released. "Who else knows, and where are they?"

"No one else has noticed, save for Mikael here."

The recruit follows close behind. "I thought it best not to draw attention to them-went straight to the Spymaster, I did. They're up in the craftsman's loft, where the Seeker stays."

"Thank-you, Mikael." At the door to the grand hall, I take a moment to lay a hand on the recruit's shoulder and smile at him. "Return to your duties. Leliana, make sure this stays quiet while I deal with the bickering siblings."

And then I bump open the door to the grand hall and start at a casual jog towards the main yard. Just from the training ring, I can hear the sounds of clattering tables and chairs three stories up in the craftsman's loft. Barging inside, I take the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over Da'mi on the top flight.

I arrive just in time to get the gist of the argument.

Varric sneers at Cassandra as she lunges, pinning him against the railing. "You knew where Hawke was all along!" She shouts.

He shoves her back. "You're damned right I did!"

"You conniving little shit!" She reels back and takes a swing at the dwarf, but he scurries under her at the last moment, scrambling around the table to place _something_ between himself and the infuriated woman.

"You kidnapped me! You interrogated me! What did you expect?!"

Cassandra opens her mouth, but I quickly make my presence known and step between them. "Hey! Enough!"

The Seeker turns on me. "You're taking _his_ side?!"

"I said _enough_!" I repeat myself, glaring until they both come forward. A small growl comes from my feet, where Da'mi has bristled in warning.

"We needed someone to lead this Inquisition." Cassandra growls. "First, Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but she had vanished. Then, we looked for Hawke, but she was gone, too. We thought it all connected, but no. It was just _you_." She takes a step forward. I push her back. "You kept her from us!"

"The Inquisition _has_ a leader." Varric reminds her.

"Hawke would have been at the Conclave! If anyone could have saved Most Holy..."

My head tilts, suddenly understanding her outburst. "Varric's not responsible for what happened at the Conclave."

"I was protecting my friend!" He insists.

"Varric is a liar, Inquisitor. A snake." She takes a step. Again, I shove her back. "Even after the Conclave, when we needed Hawke most, Varric kept her a secret."

"She's with us now, Seeker. We're on the same side!"

Cassandra backs off, crosses her arms and scoffs. "We all know who's side you're on, Varric. It will never be the Inquisition's."

Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair in order to remain calm. "Attacking him now won't help us, Cassandra."

Varric laughs. "Exactly!"

I spin to him. "And you better not be keeping anything else from us." I look him in the eye. "From _me_."

"For the..." Varric sighs, placing his hands up in defeat as he begins backing towards the stairs. "I understand."

And then Cassandra does something that surprises us all: she turns away and leans on the railing, her voice choked with just enough emotion to make her seem human. "I must not think of what could have been. Not with so much at stake." She sighs. "Go, Varric. Just...go."

At the top of the stairs, Varric stops. "You know what I think? If Hawke had been at the temple, she'd be dead, too. You people have done enough to her." And then he hurries down, content with having the last word.

"I...believed him." Cassandra confesses once we hear the door shut three stories down. "He spun his story for me, and I swallowed it. If I'd just explained what was at stake...if I'd just made him understand..." She sinks into a chair. "But I didn't, did I? I didn't explain why we needed Hawke. I'm such a fool..."

I kneel in front of her. "Have you looked at our Inquisition, Cassandra? We're _all_ fools here." I gesture to myself. "Maker, I'm still in my nightclothes, and I must look amess. Tell me that isn't foolish."

She tries a laugh as Da'mi springs up into her lap, tongue lapping for her cheeks. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

I shrug. "More at home, maybe. At least Da'mi thinks he's helping."

Then, Cassandra shocks me for the second time: she smiles and keeps a steady gaze. "I want you to know, I have no regrets. Maybe if we'd found Hawke or the Hero of Ferelden, the Maker wouldn't have needed to send you. But he did." I stand, then offer my hand to help her up. She takes it when Da'mi scrambles off. "You're...not what I'd pictured. But if I've learned anything, it is that I know less than nothing."

"I believe I'm exactly where the Maker needs me to be, Cassandra. Thank-you for believing the same." I place a hand on her shoulder. "I will talk to Varric. Please, don't kill him until then."

"For you?" She smirks. "Fine."

* * *

><p>I find Varric in the main hall, looking oddly guilty as he leans on the table and stares into the fire, hands resting over the scattered notes and open books that have littered the surface consistently as of late. When I pull out a chair and sit, he glances over but quickly regards the literature again, unable to meet my eyes.<p>

"Cassandra's calmed down." I inform him, nodding to where his crossbow lays on the table. "I think you can take your hand off Bianca now."

He turns his gaze to the floor. "Define 'calmed down' for me in terms of who or what she's punching right now."

"The tree never saw it coming."

My humor is rewarded with a half-smile as he finally sits down, now back to relaxed, shifty Varric. But his eyes still flit about the hall, restless and betraying. "I wasn't trying to keep secrets. I told the Inquisition everything that seemed important...at the time."

"I know, Varric. You never would have kept quiet otherwise." I lean forward. "Now, what is it _really_?"

I can see him consider playing dumb, and his mouth almost forms the first syllable of 'what are you talking about', but at the last moment he meets my gaze, finally. and sighs. "I keep hoping...none of this is real. Like, maybe it's all some bullshit from the fade, and it'll just disappear."

I shrug. "Everyone's wearing pants, so I don't think it's a dream. But-"

"I know." He raises a hand, then runs it over his face. "I need to do better. I'm sorry, alright?"

"Hey." When a crumpled up piece of paper bounces off his head, Varric looks up. I give him a smile, honest and true in my words. "You told us, didn't you? If you really want to do better, I'd say that's a pretty good start."


	17. Seventeen: Not What Was Expected

"Thank-you, by the way. I heard Seeker Pentaghast tried to maim Varric when I showed up, and you stopped her. So...thanks."

Marian Scout Hawke stares over the ramparts at the mountainous landscape that surrounds Skyhold. In the retreating sunlight her green eyes glow, brown hair twisted back into a tight bun although two strands fall loose to frame her face so she can repeatedly brush them away during conversation. I haven't yet decided whether that's a nervous tick, or if the action started as one and then devolved into something she does unknowingly, out of habit. From what I've seen, either is possible at this point.

The Champion is, in no way, what I expected when Varric introduced us earlier this evening. The stories that he was constantly retelling always painted Hawke as sarcastic, confident, and even a little bit genial if you really listened. The woman standing before me now is just as sarcastic, but almost too confident, and her geniality has apparently warped into bitterness over the course of her ordeal.

After introductions were made, there was the obvious discussion of 'where are the Wardens', followed by 'shit, I thought you knew' and punctuated with 'well, I have a lead'. Then, Varric left Scout and I alone to chat while he and Da'mi diverted Cassandra. All parties agreed that putting the Seeker within ten feet of the Champion was, ultimately, a terrible idea.

I shrug, leaning against a stone merlon that doesn't look about ready to crumble. "Really, it is daily with those two; they bicker like siblings. The only difference that time is the Seeker actually tried to hit Varric rather than just threatening to do so."

She laughs. "Even still, the ass sometimes forgets that words can't get you out of everything."

"That doesn't stop him from trying." I scoff. Hawke laughs again. "I can't fault Varric for withholding the information, though. Half of Thedas was clamoring to find you after the rebellion began."

"No." She shakes her head, brushing the left spiral of hair behind her ear. "I got out of Kirkwall to save it, but...when the sky tore open, I should have sought the Inquisition out, rather than watching events unfold and mumbling 'damn it, Anders'."

"If you're looking for judgement, I cannot be the one to give it." I murmur. "If I had a choice, I'm not sure I'd stay here and lead."

"Why's that, if I may ask?"

I shrug. "I had a path prior to all of this, one with the dalish. Before that, I trained to be a rogue."

Scout raises a brow. "You were not a rogue among the dalish? One of their hunters?"

_Shit._ "I had a different role." Is my gentle answer. "But I will not lie: it feels good to hold Brother and Sister again-my daggers. The Inquisition has been looking into specialists to further hone my skills, even."

"Any ideas?"

"None, so far. Perhaps assassin, although I certainly won't delve too far into their darker practices."

"That's a fine set of skills; in Kirkwall, I took up assassin and duelist myself."

"Two? You've more time than I."

"Hardly. Tell me, Hollyn, rogue to rogue..." Hawke glances over and smirks. "With all that is going on, do you think this is just one of those weeks?"

"I think 'one of those _lives_' would be more accurate, serah." I chuckle, then regard her. "Or...'two of those lives', maybe."

"Three, if you count the Hero of Ferelden." Hawke reminds me. "I mean at this point, we should make a 'saving the world' club and hang a 'girls only' sign on the door."

"Add 'rogues only', as well." I laugh. "Maker, someone would just have to find that Cousland first."

"She's better at hiding than I am." Hawke agrees. "I met her old lover once, though."

"King Alistair of Ferelden?"

She nods. "Yes, back when I was still Champion. Never saw her; perhaps she was still in Amaranthine with...what was that name?" The hair is tucked away once again. "Howe! I believe that was it...the Cousland and the Howe."

"Varric mentioned something about that, once. Lothering was in the same area?"

"Yes." Hawke turns toward me, and we continue walking along the ramparts. "Does he talk about me a lot?"

"He wrote a book about you."

"But I mean personally." She prods.

It takes me a moment to consider this. "Up until recently, only about tales of your escapades. In the last week or so, his praises of you in those stories became more evident."

"That sounds like Varric..." She gives a sad, lost smile.

"He truly considers you a friend, Hawke. Even knowing Varric as little as I do, I can understand how monumental that trust is when it comes from him."

"What do you mean 'as little as you do'?" Then, Hawke surprises me. "He speaks of you just the same."

My step falters. "I'm sorry?"

Eyebrows raised, Hawke turns around and matter-of-factually nods. "What? You're not telling me you haven't noticed..." Then, she laughs. "Oh, serah, I suppose I must say it then: I did not approach you as one would a living saint or star. Did you never wonder why?"

"I supposed..." But I can't finish the sentence as floored as I am.

"You supposed it was because we both are in the 'saving the world' club?" Scout Hawke laughs. "Inquisitor, you are the Herald of Andraste herself; the only reason I saw you as an equal was _because of Varric_. He painted you as a fair and just woman, with flaws and strengths just as any other person. And what he stressed to me was that, in all of this, you somehow manage to keep your humility and remain level, rather than just allowing yourself to be pinned up as a symbol. Give yourself more credit and perhaps-"

"Scout, there you are!" Varric crests the stairs with Da'mi behind him. The concern in his gait fades to relief when Hawke and I turn.

Scout speaks for the both of us even as I remain stunned, staring at the dwarf beside her. "Sorry, Varric. We were caught up, I suppose. What do you need?"

"A caravan is leaving Skyhold tomorrow...morning, um-" Varric's brow furrows as he finally notices my slack jaw and confused gaze. "Is Mid alright?"

"Who?" Hawke and I mumble in unison.

"You." He looks at me. "I haven't seen you this stunned since we found Bull with one of the kitchen maids."

"Ew!" I hiss, suddenly snapped from my shock by the unpleasant memory. "Maker, Varric...I _was_ fine. Now those poor cheese wheels will haunt me..." Beside me, Hawke giggles.

"Right, anyways..." Varric looks back up at Hawke. "I've got a quiet way to get you out of here in the morning. We can discuss it over dinner, and you're not saying no."

"Alright," Hawke consents, smiling at him. "Thank-you, Inquisitor, for your hospitality. If I do not see you in the morning, then goodbye...at least until we meet again in Crestwood."

"And the same to you." I nod at her as she and Varric walk towards the stairs. I turn away and lean out one of the crenels, gazing at the sun as the last rays of light dip below the mountains, trying to fathom what she has said. Da'mi nuzzles into my leg. Despite being underfed from birth, the little mabari puppy now rises proudly to my knee, gazing up with concern in a way that asks 'what are you thinking about?'.

"Don't concern yourself, Da'mi." I sigh on a soft smile to the mabari, thinking that perhaps it's not the stretch of time, but the occurrence of time that brings people together; a particularly tenuous ideal when we live in a world where time magic is possible.

"Hey, Hollyn?"

Pulled from my reverie, I turn to the stairs, and to Marian Scout Hawke. She hovers between the walkway and the first step, Varric already out of sight.

"Yes?"

She smiles, almost looking like the Hawke I expected before we first met. "He _always_ starts with the nicknames."

* * *

><p><span>AN: Enter Hawke, stage right. Quick background on her: A dual-wielding rogue, sided with mages, friendship-romanced Fenris. Oh, and sarcasm _all the way!_

Anyway, thanks for reading!


	18. Eighteen: Doing Better

Marian Scout Hawke left the next morning, concealed amongst the hustle and bustle of a trading Caravan bound for the Storm Coast. Only Varric saw her off in the little hours before dawn truly broke over the mountains, but I rose to watch from my balcony as they loaded her few possessions in the back of a cart, meticulously, slowly. Then, the oddest thing happened.

Varric paused.

Even from my balcony, I could see Hawke sigh, tuck the left strand of hair behind her ear and then kneel to kiss Varric's cheek. She moved to stand, but he enveloped her in a lingering hug before she was out of reach.

He stood there for the longest time after the caravan left and the gates to Skyhold closed behind her. Dawn broke, casting gold beams of light into the courtyard, but still Varric lingered. Just as I'd made up my mind to go down and see if he was alright, Cassandra emerged from the craftsman's building and descended the steps, hair still disheveled and clothes still wrinkled with sleep.

Her hand fell upon Varric's shoulder, but neither turned to regard the other. Rather, they merely stared at the gate until sunlight drowned the yard in shades of renewal and residents began to scurry past their immobile forms. Eventually, the dwarf looked up and said something, Cassandra smiled, and then they parted ways; she left to make herself presentable, and he returned to the grand hall, disappearing past the view of my perch.

I grin even now with the memory, because Cassandra hadn't killed him and Varric didn't make a snarky comment from what I saw; they were both trying to do better, and the harmony radiated unimpeded.

"You are smiling, miss." Lily remarks from behind a basket of clothing. I glance over, torn from my thoughts.

Reaching forward to lighten her load as we walk, I take a bundle of clothes and nod. "I've had a good morning, Lily. How was yours?"

Even after every genial action and honest inquiry into her health and the like, Lily still wears a surprised expression each time I ask her a courteous, polite, common question. Having grown up a slave girl in Denerim to some young noble, I thought it best to never ask after her past, despite the insight it might provide into her reserved manner.

The blue-eyed girl soon recovers and gives me a small smile as we continue our trek outside Skyhold's walls. "I have no complaints, miss. Since being assigned to you personally, i've had more free time than ever before. You are generous, even with things like this." Lily gestures to her basket of clothes as we sidestep a particularly high drift of snow. Spring was due soon, but winter seemed adamant to stay even as the days warmed and the snow melted, freeing streams from a frozen embrace to run free again through groves and crags once buried under a chilly blanket.

Running streams also meant washing laundry was much more convenient.

Despite Lily's protests-and Josephine's, and Vivienne's, and a random noble's who thought I cared-I insisted on washing my own clothing for once. When asked, my explanation was simple: 'Other people can keep their hands off my shit.'

The message was received, and protests stopped.

"I appreciate your sentiments, da'adahl."

"They are not sentiments if they are true, miss." Lily beams as we reach the edge of a small stream, snow still dotted about the bank, but the water running freely regardless. Three other serving girls all kneel at the opposite bank, their own baskets of laundry to contend with. I recognize Josephine and Cullen's maids, but the third is unfamiliar.

"Good morning!" Lily calls cheerfully as we set our baskets down at the water's edge. The girls all look up, calling 'good morning, Lily!' until they see me.

"Madame!" The unfamiliar girl nearly drops the garment she had been washing. "I apologize! We didn't know-"

"It is fine, dear." I smile at the dark-haired girl, then look to the others, eager to extend an olive branch of some sort. "I'm Hollyn. May I know your names?"

"I am Michelle." Josephine's maid whispers in a susurrant Orlesian accent.

The elven maid tending to Cullen's things is a bit more shy, and stays glued to her work as she whispers 'Lynn'.

"And I am Kensie." The unfamiliar girl grins.

The water is cold as Lily and I kneel and begin our task of washing. "Who's house are you here with, Kensie? I don't recognize you."

Kensie informs me she is visiting with a lady from a minor house in Antiva, and they have only been at Skyhold for a day or so. From there, the maids devolve into mindless chatter and gossip, and I am content to listen until the clothes have all been washed.

As Lily and I hang our damp laundry from lines of string strung between tree branches, a messenger scurries into the grove from Skyhold, asking after me.

"What is it?" I ask, wringing out the hem of the blue dress I'd slipped into this morning.

"Seeker Cassandra asked me to find you. It seems Madame Vivienne and the apostate are having a minor disagreement."

"The apost-Solas?" I scramble up, nearly slipping on the wet grass. "What in the Maker's name could they be arguing about?"

"Uh..." Suddenly, the scout's face goes blank as he tries to recall. "I...I can't seem to remember, Inquisitor."

Cole. "Oh, no. Lily, do you mind-" I gesture to our drying laundry.

"Not at all, miss. Go save your friends from themselves." Lily smiles up at me, returning to her task.

"Thank-you, da'adahl." Slipping my damp boots on, I follow the messenger and quickly make the trek back to Skyhold.

* * *

><p>"It is a demon. They are all the same."<p>

"That is a matter for debate. Cole is a spirit-"

"Demon." Vivienne seethes in her refined manner, frowning further when she sees me across the training yard. "Inquisitor, why you insist on letting the apostate keep the demon-" she gestures to the wall, where Cole sits, looking down at the lower yard. "-as his pet is beyond me."

"I do no such thing." Solas insists.

"You coddle him like a child."

By this point, I've reached the two and proceed to pinch the bridge of my nose as they bicker.

"He does not understand this world, madame."

"Because he does not belong here."

"With no one to guide him, he may-"

"Do what demons are prone to do? Imagine that."

"Stop." I mumble, dark and low, a stark contrast to their raised voices. Both Solas and Vivienne turn towards me, startled. "I said Cole could stay, and he shall."

Vivienne scoffs. "Inquisitor-"

"No." Once again, I halt any protests. "Vivienne, the moment he does something uncouth or unforgivable, you may complain. Until then, Cole will remain here as an equal. But..." I turn my gaze to Solas. "Should he create or become a problem, the repercussions will be on your head. Am I understood?"

I don't wait for them to concede; I instead turn away and make for the far wall where Cole still sits, gently tapping his feet, head lowered. Carefully, I lift the hem of my dress and climb up the wall, situating myself next to Cole. The stone is cold against my bare calves.

Cole still taps, but the humming stops. "Madame Vivienne does not like me."

I sigh and shake my head. "No, da'sa. She doesn't."

"Da'sa." For a moment, the boy next to me tilts his head. "_Little one."_

Yes." I smile. "I believe it fits."

Cole nods, then returns to his humming. In the yard below, Lily and the other maids return with the laundry, now clean and dry. Parting words are exchanged, then Lily breaks away from the group. She heads towards the kitchen entrance, while the rest scatter to the winds.

"You are kind to her." Cole says. "Lily, da'adahl, _little flower._"

"Little tree, but...yes. It means the same." I look over at Cole when Lily disappears around a corner. "What can you tell me about her? Does Lily enjoy Skyhold?

Cole is quiet for a few heartbeats. "Yes. _Miss Lavellan is kind, calls me da'adahl. What does that mean-should ask the man in the library. I wonder..."_ A soft laugh falls from beneath the brim of Cole's hat. "_Will he be in the tavern tonight? Gentle, handsome, soft eyes, always in that chair, watching, relaxed. But always with those Chargers. If he is alone, if, if. Maybe I could say 'hi'._"

"That's nice...wait." My eyes widen. "Lily has a crush?"

"Yes."

"On?" The question is rhetorical as I think through a list of the Chargers. "Sweet Maker...it's Krem, isn't it?"

"I think so...yes." Cole looks up, grinning. "Yes."

"Good for her." I laugh, running a hand through my hair. "It is a wonder Leliana doesn't use you, Cole."

"She can't. They have to need me."

"Lily needs you?"

"I think..." His brow furrows. "I helped, because now you will help, and I told you."

"Oh, permission to meddle. Lovely." Looking down to the yard, I adjust the edge of my dress. Below, a line of recruits spars, and Cullen walks through the center, barking orders and correcting flaws as needed.

"What else do you hear, Cole?" I ask, eyes still following the Commander. He has shed his mantle and instead wears a tan tunic, shield in hand to intervene in training as needed. "Just...anything."

Cole closes his eyes. "_Hm, hm, hm...that tune, like Mother and Father's salon last summer. Onetwothree, stepping on toes_..._next...left, down, hold the shield higher, let the Commander see me slip, Maker. Help_."

Cullen comes to the side of one of the recruits and demonstrates with his own shield the proper method of whatever they're attempting to accomplish. The recruit smiles gratefully. Satisfied with the adjustment, Cullen lowers his shield and looks up to the wall.

Cole speaks again. "_Blue. She looks nice in blue, like the crystal grace growing in the garden by the chess table. Sun behind her, Maker blessed. Before, so dark, nightmares twisting a pretty face. Wanted to help, look at me, let me help. So strong, sure, agreeable, broken. Hidden, but broken_."

"Are you listening to..." I trail off, keeping my gaze below us as Cullen moves to the next recruit. The blush on my cheeks begins to burn. Yes, Cole is listening to...

"'_We should do this more often'. Yes. Time, all of it, for her. Strong, sure, agreeable-_"

"Cole."

"-_beautiful_."

"What?!" I say just a bit too loudly, jumping at the word, my balance and calm facade lost. The shrubbery lining the wall catches me as I fall backwards.

For a moment, I merely lay there, cheeks heated, eyes closed, gathering myself to face the attention I have surely gathered. Below, the ring of swords and shields stops. I look up. Cole still sits on the wall, quiet as I stand, tugging a leaf from my hair.

Cole chuckles and I turn to him, frowning. "What?"

Swords clash once again from the yard, and I look down in time to see Cullen turn away, a light smirk on his face.

This time, when Cole chuckles, he looks over with a smile. "_Graceful_."

* * *

><p><span>AN: Cole is the most useful character ever! A pain to write, but useful! Also, I fogured da'adahl could use a little crush. Why not?

Thank-you for reading!

update: I didn't realize all of Cole's italics were removed. I've fixed this, and hopefully the punchline of the chapter makes more sense now. I apologize.

update2: I messed up Cole's nickname. Da'mi is little blade. Da'assan is little arrow. Da'sa is little one I apologize. Again.


	19. Nineteen: Crestwood Rundown

_*Ten minutes after arrival*_

"Do you think we could establish something real quick?"

Varric looks up at me, a brow raised. "What's that?"

"Is the rift _seriously_ in a lake?!"

* * *

><p><em>*Five hours after arrival*<em>

"Are you two supposed to be in here?"

They young boy and girl start from their place by the fire, freezing halfway between standing and sitting, unsure of what to do. Behind him, Varric and Dorian snort at Blackwall's discovery. I look up from the chest I had been rifling through, very amused by the baffled teens.

"Inquisitor!" The boy stutters. "We didn't know anyone was gonna be through here!"

"It's quite alright." I say, standing and brushing off the knees of my leathers. A thick layer of dust had settled in the years since the blight, and its proximity to the water lent the disused Rusted Horn a musty smell. "You know, this isn't a place I would particularly call romantic. Why the secrecy?"

"Oh, please don't tell anyone!" The girl, a pretty young thing, looks so worried, but her gaze keeps trailing back to the boy, trusting, relying. "My father would have his head if he knew we were even speaking!"

"Varric, get the door to the controls open for me." I gesture to the stairs as the dwarf shrugs and reaches into his pocket for a lockpick. "Dorian, loot the second floor for any herbs or leathers Caer Bronach might use. Blackwall, stand watch outside; I want to hear if that dragon comes by again, and note where it's going."

"Of course." Blackwall bows out, back down the front hallway, and Dorian heads upstairs to nose around. I wait until they are all out of sight-disregarding Varric-before I kneel down on the rug across from the boy and girl.

"Your father doesn't like him?" I ask the girl, nodding to the boy.

She shakes her head. "Not much, no."

"Well...do you like him?"

At that, she grins, blushing and lowering her head. "Quite a bit, yes."

I laugh, then look to the boy. "And do you like her?"

"Very much, miss." He admits, although the admission is dulled by some semblance of manly reserve-the kind only found in young boys who still care what their friends think.

"Well," I stand just as Varric opens the door to the controls. "I don't see a problem then. Stay in here until nightfall-we should have the undead dealt with by then. If I reach Crestwood in time, I'll make up some story for the two of you."

Varric gives me a sideways glance as I pass by into the control room, nearly smiling in approval. "You didn't have to do that, Hollyn."

"You're right," I shake my head, looking back at the twittering pair of teens. "I didn't."

* * *

><p><em>*Eight hours after arrival*<em>

"I'm sorry, the mayor did what?"

The guard outside the Mayor's house in Crestwood shifts under my scrutiny. "He rode out of town a bit ago, Inquisitor. Not a word, or nothing."

I had been on edge since entering Old Crestwood and finding the abandoned mining tunnels. Those cavernous, claustrophobic ruins housed a rift deep within their depths, and although our purpose there was noble, I couldn't help but think about the lakes-worth of water still above us. Those ruins had been flooded once-who was to say they wouldn't be flooded again?

Varric hisses from his kneeling position by the Mayor's front door. "Door is jammed, Hollyn. We aren't getting in here without-shit!"

The dwarf jumps back as I throw my weight into the door, splintering the wood and popping the lock clean out of the threshold. The warped metal skitters across the floor of the cabin, coming to rest just at Mayor Dedrick's desk. Pinned to the wooden surface by a candle, a note flutters in the stormy winds that peel through the open door.

I run a hand through my hair and calmly pick up the note, turning back to my party by the door. The three men gape at me.

"I'm tired." I explain, then glance down at the note, mumbling as I read it. "_Inquisitor_..._not darkspawn_..._I did, in secret_..." Then my voice raises so everyone can hear. "_The undead you have been fighting are people I killed with my own hands. _That's what it says. Right there." I look back up. "Fuck."

* * *

><p><em>*Nine hours after arrival*<em>

Varric and I stare at the scene before us. The two teens from the Rusted Horn, now thoroughly soaked by the rain that still patters down, look shamefully up at a red-faced man before them. I can only assume he is the girl's father.

"A sovereign says you can't talk him down." Varric mumbles from beside me, leaning against the door of the inn.

"Keep your money and watch a master work." I smirk at him, striding out into the pouring rain. The trek through the mud to the center of the street takes all of five seconds, which gives me enough time to notice two things: elfroot hangs from a basket in the man's hands and the girl carries her own, empty basket. This is enough.

"Da'len, I am so glad to see you again! And you, her defender!" I glide past the livid man, capturing the girl's hands in a relieved manner and patting the boy on the shoulder. "It is wonderful to see you made it back safely after such a scare by the shore."

The girl opens her mouth to question, but I widen my eyes in a 'shut-up' manner and spin to her father. He glares at me.

"What is the meaning of this?" He snaps. "Inquisitor, you are intruding-"

"You mean you don't know?" I look behind to the children. "Why haven't you told him?"

"There...wasn't a chance." The boy mutters, catching on.

"Maker, then _I_ will tell him." Running a hand through my soaked hair, I straighten up to the large father who dwarfs me. "Ser, this young boy saved your daughter's life. She was at the shore collecting herbs for your apothecary when a troop of the undead rose from the waters! When I came along, this young man was fending off three of those monsters while she recovered herself. My party and I swooped in to help, but surely, had he not been there your dear girl would be resting at the lake's bottom."

The father still frowns. "That doesn't explain why I found them coming from the old tavern on the dam."

"We had just cleared it, and I had them take refuge there while the rift in the lake was dealt with. Why else?" I tilt my head, furrowing my brow in my best 'innocent elf' expression.

"I..." The father begins, his gaze flickering from me, to his daughter and the boy, then back. "I suppose I should thank-you, Inquisitor."

"I was merely doing my job. Thank this young man." I gesture to the boy. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Varric is shaking his head when I return, impressed. "Alright, the gathering herbs thing I get; she has a basket. But how did you know he ran the apothecary?"

I remain silent for a moment, rather watching the father kneel to wrap his daughter in a hug, then stand. For a moment, he looks ready to yell again, until he reaches out and shakes the boys hand.

"When I got over there, I realized he smelled of mixed elfroot and spindleweed. My chances were good."

"Damn," Varric says, popping open the door to the tavern. Inside, the roaring fireplace is a welcome respite from the cold storm outside. "You know, you didn't have to do that."

"You're right," I shuck off my cloak. "I didn't."

"That sound vaguely familiar."

"Your comment did too."

This time, Varric laughs. "Fair enough. You got me there, Mid."

* * *

><p><em>*One day after arrival*<em>

"Why is it always a ritual tower? What can't it ever be the tower of hopes and dreams?"

Scout Hawke sighs, looking much more tired than I remember from her visit to Skyhold; dark circles shadowed her eyes, and the hair curls had been brushed back twice as much while we were talking to Stroud. "The Venatori don't really seem like the 'hopes and dreams' kind of people."

I laugh, sitting down on a nearby boulder. "Either way, we'll need to get an Inquisition presence established in the Western Approach before we even step foot in that wasteland."

"Stroud and I will move ahead and scout the area. We plan to move at nightfall."

"Nightfall?" Varric speaks up, staring at Hawke. "Scout, you need to rest. You-you look half-dead."

"I'll rest when I'm dead, Varric." Her sullen tone ends the conversation outright. "I should go help Stroud with his things. Inquisitor, I'll see you in the Western Approach."

"Take care." But Scout Hawke is already gone, having disappeared back into the cave we had just emerged from. "Well..." I risk a glance at Varric. He turns away, but not before I see the all-encompassing concern weighing down his expression.

"What's the plan, my lady?" Blackwall asks.

"We finish up any business here," I answer, standing. "And then we pool our options back at Skyhold."

Dorian gestures to the pond nearest us. "Onward then?"

"Yeah...onward it is."

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:** This chapter gave me so much hell for no reason. I'm just *flips desk*.  
>Next chapter is important, thought out, and damnit things take off between our lovely Mid and her Commander. Guess how that goes?<p> 


	20. Twenty: Lyrium, pt1

The day after our return from Crestwood is a surprisingly peaceful one. After a lengthy meeting with my advisors about the Calling, the Wardens, and the Ritual Tower of Hopes and Dreams-no one seemed to appreciate the sarcasm-Scout Harding and her forces are immediately readied and dispatched to the Western Approach and by the next evening Skyhold has settled into its usual routines. Nobles come and go; soldiers train in the yard; Varric and I spend that evening at his desk, each silently chipping away at our own tasks. I have official reports to write up and little time to dally because Leliana has taken to sending a messenger every hour asking 'Are you done?', or something to that effect.

The lengthy assignment doesn't stop me from glancing over at Varric every now and then. Since Hawke had left us at Crestwood with little more than a goodbye, he had seemed more tired, reserved. Still snarky, and quick, and focused, but a bit quieter when you weren't looking at him; concerned, like he needed to be concerned, for someone or something, it didn't matter which, so long as they were close enough to help.

And Hawke's not here.

Eventually, I finish writing up my report and dismiss myself from Varric's table to find Leliana. The dwarf had left a while ago to bother Dagna in the Undercroft, so I make sure to stoke his fire before leaving, lest he return to a cold haunt. Our Spymaster isn't up in the aviary where I assumed she would be, so I deliberate who else might want to see the report as I descend the tower. Maybe the Commander?

The door to Cullen's office is cracked open, so I rap lightly on the wood and let myself in. "Commander, I've finished the report on Crestwood if you-"

The sunset paints Cullen's office with a warm glow, red and orange streaming through the windows behind to cast lingering rays on the cobblestone floor. Caught in a particularly bold ray of golden light, Cullen leans over his desk, considering a nondescript wooden box, its lid securely locked with a small chain. At the sound of my voice, Cullen looks up, pushing the box to the side.

"I'm sorry if I've interrupted something." I say quickly, backing towards the door. "I can come back-"

"No, it's alright. Come in." He rubs the back of his neck, tired. Dark circles hang under his eyes, and the concave curve of his brow has yet to waver. "I've been meaning to speak to you, regardless."

"Yes, well..." I carefully make my way forward, closing the door behind me. The report is set on his desk. "I thought you would want the report on our excursion to Crestwood. Fascinating...what happened there."

"Hm." Cullen nods, gathering up the papers and perusing through the first page before setting them aside.

"Cullen, what's wrong?" I ask suddenly. "You're being especially ominous."

"As leader of the Inquisition, there is something you must know."

"Of course."

"Right. Thank-you." Cullen almost looks surprised as he pulls the small box back to the center of his desk and clicks it open. "Lyrium grants Templars our abilities," He begins. "But it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer-some go mad, others die."

When he finally leans over the open box, I take a step forward, and worry wells up within my chest. Several instruments whose uses I can't possibly fathom are packed amongst red velvet-a vial, a knife, and a kind of syringe, all kept under Templar lock and key. But it is as if the box itself gives off an unwelcoming, unholy aura, rays of sunlight seemingly swallowed by the ominous object.

Shaking hands clasp behind my back, out of view of the world-weary man as everything suddenly becomes just a bit cooler.

Thankfully not noticing my hesitation, Cullen continues. "We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here. But I..." He sighs. I lay my hand next to his on the desk. "I no longer take it."

My breath catches, heart jumping a beat, or six, and then freezing altogether with a rush of cold. "You...stopped?"

He nods, staring at the velvet and tools. "When I joined the Inquisition. It's been months now."

Oh, Maker...so cold... The shaking behind my back worsens, but I take in a long, slow breath and find that concern for my Commander-my friend-just barely outweighs the chilly fear of lyrium addiction and its side-effects. Barely. "Cullen, if this can kill you-"

"It hasn't yet." He looks up, giving me a level, serious gaze. "After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn't..." When he next speaks, Cullen regards the area over my shoulder with so much intensity that I almost feel the need to turn around and scan the room for intruders. His words are not directed to anyone but himself. "I will not be bound to the Order-or that life-any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it. But I would not put the Inquisition at risk."

Closing the box, Cullen rights himself then pauses a moment before retreating his hand from the space next to mine. I hide a blush and look away.

He continues now, appearing much more comfortable than when I first found him. "I've asked Cassandra to...watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty."

"This..." I close my eyes for a moment, then find myself around the desk, perched on the corner closest to Cullen. Our proximity is jarring; my body screams 'No!' against the cold, but my concern whispers 'yes.' for my friend, "Are you in pain?"

He meets my gaze. "I can endure it."

The regard lingers as I lean ever-so-slightly forward and look for any sign of deception in his golden eyes, accented by the dimming sunset still shining through the windows. "Thank-you for telling me. I...respect what you're doing."

"Thank-you, Hollyn." Our moment over, we both blink, then I determine it best if I hop off the desk and begin my exit from the room. As I retreat over the threshold, Cullen speaks again. "Inquisitor? The Inquisition's army must always take priority. Should anything happen...I will defer to Cassandra's judgement."

Even as I nod and close the door to his office, my attempts at reason are submerged under memories of cool waters and crazed men. The shaking worsens. My quarters suddenly seem too far away, and if I'm going to have a breakdown, I need to be alone.

Tunnel vision carries me through the tower door, skirting through Solas' level of the tower as I send a prayer to the Maker, thankful the elf isn't within. The grand hall is void of any occupants as well as I tighten the grip of my hands behind my back and force my steps to remain calm and even, just in case.

I've hardly stepped onto the stage of the throne when the door to the Undercroft opens and Varric saunters out. Another bout of cold washes past, and I stumble, focused on making it to my door.

"There you are, Mid. I've been meaning to catch you."

The door latch is in my hand, but I press my forehead to the wood and slowly, biting back the shivers and the cold, turn to Varric.

"Can it wait, Varric?" I try to make my voice sound final, strong. I have no idea if I succeed.

The dwarf shakes his head, walking over. "Probably shouldn't; a little birdie told me something about the Commander you might want to hear before you next chat with h-"

Varric is perceptive, I'll give him that. He stops mid sentence, eyes catching the way my shoulders have tightened, and when I release one shaking hand to bring it through my hair, he frowns further.

"Oh, shit."

"Look, Varric," I mumble, determined to head this off. "I appreciate the warning, but you're a little late. I'll be fine, okay?"

"Come on." Varric sidesteps me and pushes my door open.

I nearly fall, stumbling back just enough for him to get us past the golden light of the hall and into the dimmer, colder light of my quarters. While I regain my footing, Varric waits with the door half closed, watching me. I look up, arms wrapped around myself, shivering, shaking from cold water that isn't there but that I can still feel after all these years.

"Varric," I growl in warning. The stairs up to my solitude are just within reach, if only I can get rid of the damn dwarf. One glance at his face though, and I hesitate; whatever harsh words I had prepared falter over the gentle, concerned expression that naturally makes me the center of Varric's attention.

"I'll leave if you want, but I know what fear can do to a person." He takes in a deep breath. "Do you really want to be alone?"

I hate myself for how quickly the answer becomes clear; how quickly he shuts and locks the door when I cover my face with both hands, shaking my head; how quickly I fall to my knees and Varric calmly envelopes me, standing not so much as shield but as a welcoming shore at the edge of a raging, cold, dark river.

-how quickly I resolve not to cry, not to lose control, but just let myself shake and gasp, fighting against the current that threatens to pull me out to sea.

* * *

><p>"Is the Inquisitor inside?"<p>

"She just fell asleep, Nightingale. Let her rest, yeah?"

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:** Huge thanks to MelindaOz once again for editing this for me! You really are becoming my go-to, dear, and I appreciate it.

Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think of this chapter!  
><span>


	21. Twenty-One: Meddling

"_He's in here, nonono, I'm not ready, can't be, no._"

"Anything else?"

"_Hair_."

"She's...worried about her hair?"

Lily has no reason to be worried; Straight, dark-blond hair is hardly anything to be concerned about and her doe-eyed expression could drag a gentle word or phrase out of even the surliest of templars.

No templars; not tonight.

I shake my head of the sudden thought. "I gave her the night off. Lily better not think about leaving."

"She won't." Cole assures me, swinging his legs from our perch. The banister around the second story of the Herald's Rest provides the ideal location for sitting and observing. From here we can see the bar, the front door, and-most importantly-Krem, who sits in his corner with a bottle of wine, observing quietly and yet always keeping one eye towards any Charger who wanders around the tavern, and Maker knows there are a lot of them. I only know six by name after sitting down with Bull earlier this afternoon to meet the company, but six is more than enough.

On the crowded floor below-today was some dwarven holiday I think, which means everyone gets to celebrate-Lily winds her way to the bar. Cabot spots her halfway across and has a mug full of something ready by the time she gets there. He gives Lily a reassuring nod, then turns back to the other patrons.

I glance over at Cole. "I can't believe you gave me permission to meddle."

"Help." He corrects. "Do you know what you are going to do?"

"Not a clue. We'll see how they do on their own." I watch as Krem sets down his bottle, then stands and weaves his way to the bar. "Where's he going?"

"I...don't know."

"You can't...? Okay, this is where I come in." I slide backwards off the bannister, circling around the second story to the opposite side to get a better view of the bar. Lily still sits at the far end, nursing her drink, but right now I'm more interested in what Krem is doing, so I lean forward and thank the Maker I remember what Father and the Dalish taught me about tracking. Krem's gait and gaze are straightforward, but his head is tilted slightly to the left, indicating interest to something in that direction. At the crowded bar, two seats open up at the same time; one to the right, and one to the left, next to Lily.

Krem veers left.

"Yes!" I grin, gesturing for Cole and perching on the bannister. The young man joins me shortly, and he too is smiling.

"But they're not talking." Cole eventually observes after a moment of content watching.

"I know, but...you want to see what I'm seeing?"

"How can I? Your eyes-"

"Look," I cut him off and point to each observation as I speak. "Krem left a half-full bottle of wine at his chair. Why would he go to the bar and order a drink if he has plenty of his own left? Then, when he was walking over, two seats opened at the bar there, and there; took the one next to Lily, but the other one was closer. And do you see how he is sitting? Torso angled to Cabot to order, and twisted so the rest of him is just barely facing Lily. He'll talk to her when he's done with Cabot. Watch."

And we do watch, I in smug satisfaction and Cole in fascination as Krem orders something, then turns to face Lily and leans on the bar. He says something, holds out his hand, and they shake.

"_He's talking to me! Sweet, soft eyes, why did I expect any different? Polite, real, wonderful._"

"That's what I wanted to hear, Cole." I grin, running a hand through my hair. Below, Maryden starts playing 'Sera Was Never' and those in her immediate vicinity join in, their voices raising past the din of the tavern to float up through the air. Beside me, Cole begins humming the tune-poorly, but it's still cute-and I softly join in on the first chorus, laughing because this, right here, right now, is just so nice.

It was only yesterday I found myself telling Varric the story of a young child caught and nearly drowned by a templar in the throes of withdrawal, with only one major omission: I claimed she was caught because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time; a mere coincidence, rather than because the girl had yet to be taught to suppress what was born into her.

Surprisingly, the dwarf understood. He listened, and nodded, and said it made sense, and promised to stay quiet, promised that nothing had changed, and I believed him. I believed him because the concerned look on his face was so sincere, and he finally looked comfortable; the sour expression Hawke had bestowed unto him was gone, replaced by concern for me, but I didn't feel like a replacement. I felt like a friend.

On the tavern floor, the song ends to raucous cheers and shouts; Krem and Lily lean closer, talking, laughing, occasionally blushing; in her room, Sera slams the door, annoyed by the song; cool spring air blows into the building as the front door opens, admitting two new participants to the fray. I strain to see the front door from our new perch; one disadvantage, I suppose.

Beside me, Cole frowns. "Hollyn."

I cant my head towards him absently, still trying to find whoever entered. To my dismay, they are staying by the entryway, just out of view. "Hm, da'sa?"

"_Should have known, should have noticed. Obvious now, why not then? Shouldn't have to hear it from him._"

This gets my full attention. "Is something wrong?" I glance down to Lily and Krem. "Is she alright?"

"Not her." Cole shakes his head, pointing down to the main floor. "_Why wouldn't she tell me?_"

In my moment of concern for my maid, I had missed Cullen and Varric break from the entryway and make their way through the Herald's Rest; the dwarf speaks loudly in his typical manner, greeting drunken patrons and sober acquaintances alike, while Cullen remains silent, following beside the dwarf. A clear table waits for them by the fireplace, and they sit.

"Cole," I whisper, voice darker than intended, never taking my eyes off of Varric. "Who were you listening to?"

"Cullen." Is his simple answer.

The rage that wells in my chest is quick, a sudden burst that tightens and pales my knuckles against the railing. Then the fire is gone, as quickly as it came, replaced by disappointment.

Cole's gloved hand slides over mine, bringing me back. "He didn't want to tell."

"I'm sure he didn't, da'sa." Hopping off the railing, I make my way to the stairs. "Watch Lily for me, will you?"

"Where are you going? Don't hurt Varric, please. I like Varric."

I laugh slightly. "I won't, Cole. Watch her?"

"Yes."

By the time I'm at the foot of the stairs, both Cullen and Varric have spotted me, and Varric gestures me over with a grin.

"What's the occasion, Varric?" I ask once I reach the two men, gesturing around at the overcrowded tavern. Cullen sits in a stewing silence, so I let him, unsure of what to say.

The dwarf shrugs. "Some Paragon's name-day, I think. Shouldn't you be getting ready for the Approach?"

"We have time." I point over to Lily and Krem, who haven't moved from their place by the bar. "Cole and I were meddling."

"Cole?" Varric tilts his head, then looks up to the second story. "Oh..."

"Yeah, he's really been a help tonight." I stare at Varric. "Learned all sorts of things." The way Varric's face falls, there is no doubt in my mind that he knows that I know. "Anyway, I was just about to leave. Gentlemen."

Outside, the air is warm, suggesting that Summerday might be closer than anticipated. I close my eyes and let the wind ruffle my hair, moonlight washing over the courtyard. Skyhold sleeps so early in the evening, the Herald's Rest is like an uncooperative child in comparison; but out here the noise is less, dulled by distance and pressing thoughts.

Varric told Cullen about my breakdown; about my negative reaction to such a personal issue. I can almost understand why Cassandra threatens to stab him so much; Varric asks for it sometimes.

But Varric isn't without his reasons, surely. The dwarf has more sense than most of my companions, so he wouldn't go whispering my fears to a ready ear for mere amusement; or so I prefer to believe. Truly, it's the potential reasons that scare me; what was so monumental, Varric felt my weakness needed to be shared?

"Inquisitor,"

The formal title hurts. Internally, I curse, then scold my heart for jumping at the sound of Cullen's voice. I glance over my shoulder, raising a brow. "Commander."

Cullen comes to stand beside me in the bright courtyard. For a moment, we stare simply up at the moon, rising just past the peak of Skyhold's tallest tower, large and full in all its glory.

Wind whispers past, and I open my mouth. "You needn't apologize, Cullen, if that's what you're here to do."

"I feel I must." He insists. I risk a glance; those gold eyes, pale now in the white light of the moon, hold guilt in volumes. "Had I noticed your apprehension to the topic-"

"Terror." I correct, and the words escapes my lips before I can next breathe. "My terror towards the topic."

Cullen takes in a long breath. "I ask that you forgive me if our conversation yesterday brought up any...difficult emotions."

Beneath the moon, I feel so small, insignificant, and open. "You are forgiven, but may I explain something?"

"Anything."

"I am terrified of lyrium withdrawal, and water because of one templar. That was years ago, when I was a child, subject to circumstance. Despite being older, I still suffer from the memories when the topic comes up, but I control it, and I have enough sense now to recognize that you are not the templar from my past, Cullen. The idea-concept-terrifies me, but you do not."

Once again, Skyhold is silent, my words echoing off the space between me and my commander. An explosion of noise radiates from the Herald's Rest as the door is thrown open and two dwarves stumble past, on their way to the barracks.

"Thank-you." Cullen mumbles once they have vanished. "In the future, perhaps you will consider telling me these things?"

The side of my mouth quirks up. "Tell you? My commander? How unprofessional would that be?"

Cullen's laugh is a wonderful thing; deep, rich, yet light enough to bring a smile to my own face. Moonlight flickers as a rogue cloud engulfs the moon, shrouding the courtyard in thinly veiled darkness. We stand there, laughing, until we have enough sense to perhaps finally look at one another and breathe normally again.

"You just had to, hm?" He asks, looking down at me.

I run a hand through my hair, shaking my head. "We were being much too serious. "

"I suppose. Truthfully, though..."

The moon emerges from its hiding place, capturing me in Cullen's firm, pale-gold gaze. His scarred upper lip suddenly seems too close, like at some point we had drifted towards a much more private distance. I can still count the breaths between us, but cold lies there too, making our accidental atmosphere that much more noticeable. I shiver.

And apparently I'm not the only one to be affected. Cullen clears his throat, still keeping the eye contact steady, then tries again. "Truthfully, will you consider telling me these things? Or must I remind you of the night you were named Inquisitor?"

His tone has taken on a deeper register. Whispers of lyrium and addict threaten to leak into the moment, but I fight back. "I remember. And if I say I will come to you, can you say that you will come to me?"

"Of course." The lack of hesitation from Cullen is a surprise, but the warmth between us spreads, chasing away the chill that threatens to take me again. This is comfortable, but somewhere deep inside, the warmth worries a small fear, a question of 'why?', wondering why merely a man's voice drove off the cold.

"Then you have my word as a friend, Cullen."

"And you have mine."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Update: I forgot to fix the text so Cole's italics showed up. And I went through and fixed Cole's nickname again. Hopefully I got everything. I apologize. Again.


	22. Twenty-Two: Something You Don't Know

"Sweet baby Andraste."

Cassandra stops walking and turns. "What are you doing?"

"Something very important."

"Josephine is expecting us."

I nod, head still turned. "She is."

"We'll be late!"

"Mhm." I tilt my head to get a new angle. "Probably."

"By the will of the Maker-"

"I can't argue with that."

"-_what_ are you looking...oh."

"Mhm." I nod, then finally glance at Cassandra. Her words have stopped midair, leaving her lips parted and brow raised. "So...please?"

"You are awful." She grumbles, even though it is her steps I follow to the training ring.

As of late, the weather around Skyhold has grown more agreeable, leaving the sunshine warmer and the shadows cooler. By some poor misfortune-or by the luck of the Maker, as Cass and I were just discussing-this means that, as the days wear on, our poor training ring is left bathed in golden, luke-warm sunlight. Pair this with intense sparring, and it is no wonder that the serving maids find reason enough to linger about the yard during matches; to cool down, the men remove their shirts, and the women as much as is decent.

But today-a warm_er_ day by any standards-it is not two recruits that have veered the Seeker and I off course. It is our dear Commander and Warden Blackwall.

Cassandra leans on the railing while I perch on the top post, both of us shamelessly ogling the toned, battle-scarred men. My eyes linger on the smooth lines of Cullen, while Cassandra subtly favors her attention towards Blackwall's more stout build. Either way, the Warriors pay no mind to us, the ring of their swords drowning our conversation every now and again.

"This almost seems like something Varric would write about, don't you think?"

Cass scoffs. "We are _still_ not speaking of that."

She hadn't appreciated it when I found her reading one of Varric's smutty romance novels, our conversation quickly deviating from my original purpose of asking her to accompany our party when we head to the Western Approach. Consequently, Cassandra _really _hadn't appreciated it when I said 'I promise I won't tell' in the same breath as I yelled 'Varric!', while sprinting into the front hall. If Dorian and Cole hadn't been visiting with the dwarf when I barged in, I am convinced the Seeker would have stabbed me.

"I apologize, Cassandra." Although my words are sincere, my smirk is less-so. "But it _is_ good fortune that I know you to be a hopeless romantic."

She sighs, as if considering her options, then finally asks "How so?"

"It explains the part of you that enjoys displays such as this." I gesture to Blackwall and Cullen.

"You mean you knew you could get away with diverting my attention."

"Well, that..." I give her a slanted glance. "And every woman has the right to _be_ a woman, occasionally. She need not hide it."

The Seeker's frown deepens, just in time for Blackwall to glance over and finally see us, leaving Cullen an opening to check him and knock the Warden down.

"Damnit..." Blackwall hisses, taking the hand up that Cullen offers him. "Fair enough, I suppose."

"A good match, regardless." Cullen grins, wiping the sweat from his brow. The two men begin to make their way to us, sunlight dancing off scarred and shining torsos. Cassandra coughs, and I look anywhere else so as to keep my balance on the fence.

"Have you been watching long, my ladies?" Blackwall questions once at the fence. It is only then that I realize I have placed myself directly between their discarded tunics, and each man takes his respective article to deprive himself of sweat. At this distance, I notice a thick scar running down the length of Cullen's side, disappearing beneath the hem of his trousers.

I shake my head, regaining some composure. "Not very, Warden. An impressive fight, even still."

"Will you go another round?" Cassandra asks.

"They should!"

Both Cassandra and I curse at the same time upon hearing this new voice, knowing Varric is the one person who can see through our thinly veiled 'eye-candy diversion'. That, and I haven't spoken to him alone since the night in the tavern. Preparations for the Western Approach consumed most of my days, leaving me to stew in a good natured irritation whenever I regarded the dwarf. Varric joins us, grinning from ear to ear.

Cullen makes the mistake of giving Varric an 'in'. "Why's that?"

"You can never have enough practice." Varric gives only this in explanation, crossing his arms. His eyes find Cassandra. "Other than that..."

"Why not suggest a reward for the winner?" In the ensuing surprised silence, our whole party turns to look at the Seeker. Her nonchalant face is hardly any comfort, because Varric appears satisfied by some unspoken message.

"Such as...?" Blackwall asks carefully.

"Yes," I frown at Varric. "_Such as?_"

Varric waves us off. "We'll think of something, I'm sure."

Blackwall and Cullen shrug, then take up their swords and walk to the center of the ring. "Will you start us, Lady Lavellan?" The Warden asks as they take their positions.

"Arms ready!" I call, and the men raise their blades. "Fight!"

The ring of metal fills the yard, and I shift to Varric and Cassandra, both grinning.

"What?" Varric asks, shrugging.

My gaze narrows. "You both look suspiciously like the cat that swallowed the canary."

"I thought it was a pigeon."

"Nuance. What did you two do?"

Cassandra coughs. "Nothing."

"Forgive me for sounding like you, but bullshit." I hiss.

"Well," Varric leans against a post, examining his gloved hand. "Seeker here recalled specifically asking you _not_ to tell me about her reading habits. And you did."

"She thanked me later." I fidget on my perch. "Whatever you're pushing here, Varric...you're already on thin ice."

"Which is exactly where I deserve to be, but..." Varric grins, and Cassandra chuckles. "She still asked you not to."

"Okay, assuming that isn't bullshit, how does it play into their reward?" I point to the two sparring warriors, my throat catching a little as I realize they've worked up a sweat again and Cullen has this...sheen. It takes a great effort, and a better woman than I ever thought I was, to turn away.

"We thought we might stick with the theme of bad writing." Cassandra answers.

"Hey!" Varric frowns.

"Whether or not he wins, Cullen gets a k-"

"You juvenile pair!" I snap, crossing my arms the moment her suggestion becomes obvious. "How inappropriate could you get?"

"The cheek is nothing." Varric insists calmly.

"It is enough to insinuate-" Something true; something that shouldn't be there; something that, knowing what I know about him, is _impossible_, so why poke, and prod, and encourage it? Where the commander and I are now is _fine_.

Varric's expression softens. "Trust me on this, will you?"

"Trust _you_?" I scoff.

Running a hand over his face, he winces. "Okay, I deserved that. But, maybe I know something you don't; something that guarantees this won't bite you in your elven-ass."

"My ass isn't elven." Adopting a deep frown, I sulk atop the fence. "And I don't care what you know or don't know. This isn't happening."

"Oh come on, you know you want to..." Varric teases in a sing-song voice, turning on his heel and beginning a slow saunter to the tavern.

"What I want doesn't matter." I seethe.

The dwarf, frowning, casts a glance over his shoulder, then takes a deep breath. "Hey, Warden!"

Blackwall doesn't turn, but blinks, and Cullen knocks him down once again. My feet have vaulted my body off the fence before my brain catches up. Cassandra lunges to restrain me as Varric scurries off, disappearing into the tavern.

"That bastard is getting on my last nerve..." I hiss, shoving the Seeker off when my irritation subsides.

"Inquisitor, you truly don't have to." She assures me. "The reaction is what we wanted."

"Yes, but..." My heart slides into my throat as Cullen helps Blackwall up once again and they make their way towards us. "Varric wasn't lying."

"You want to?" Cassandra nearly sounds surprised, but I keep my gaze to the men, only giving a single nod. "Well, then...what was that you said? Every woman has the right to _be_ a woman?"

"That doesn't apply now." I shake my head. "I'm the Inquisitor, and he's..." Cullen. A templar. A friend. The Commander. An _addict_ given to the whims of withdrawal.

"You're also a woman." She cants her head towards Cullen. The men have reached us, and go about sliding their shirts on before inquiring as to their reward.

"To the victor go the spoils." Blackwall makes a gesture to Cullen, who rubs the back of his neck. Whether the blush on the Commander's cheeks is from the heat or bashfulness, I cannot decide.

For a moment, I manage the willpower to hold back, adamant that I won't do anything so rash as step up on the fence and kiss Cullen's tempting cheek. But then, just as I've found a perfect excuse to leave, Cullen looks to me, left brow raising in question, golden eyes scrunching at the corners, scar at the corner of his lip turning up in a miniscule smirk.

"Shit..."

My foot lifts against the bottom rung of the fence. My hands brace against the top post. My heart pounds needlessly against the cage of my chest. I lean forward, lips slightly parted of their own accord to find Cullen's stubbled cheek.

A white light ignites behind the panorama of my closed eyes. It flickers and warms my face-or maybe that's the blush-before my eyes fly open again in surprise, the heat unexpected and unwelcome.

Past the beard, Cullen's skin is softer than I would have thought-not dry and battle hardened like one expects from the commander of a militia-but I feel the rest of his body tense. A shocked breath falls to my shoulder. I risk a glance up. Those gold eyes have widened; to my left, his mouth has fallen open just barely in a surprised gasp, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

And then I pull back and hop down, grabbing Cassandra's arm on our way to the front hall; she follows up the steps with little prompting, smirking at me until we reach the top landing.

"What?" I snap, glaring.

Cassandra points back to the training ring. "It seems your right to be a woman was appreciated."

Confused, I turn around.

Cullen has moved enough to run his thumb over where my lips were not moments before, and Blackwall has a hand on the commander's shoulder, laughing something that sounds a lot like "You lucky bastard."

This reaction is surprising, and prompts a gentle idea as I cross my arms. "Huh...Cassandra?"

"Yes?"

"What does Varric know that I don't?"

"I can't imagine, Inquisitor."

"Damn."

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:** Next, onward! To the Western Approach, then Adamant! Also, I love putting in references to Origins and II. Tell me you caught this one.

On a more serious note: I love writing this story, and I won't stop due to how much enjoyment I get out of it, but you have no idea how wonderful I feel whenever I see a new follower, or a new review. The reviews really help me know who is enjoying what, and what is lacking. I really do love to hear from any and all of you!

Thank-you for reading!


	23. Twenty-Three: The Western Approach

"Does anyone else want to build a sandcastle by the Giant's Steps?"

"No."

"What the void else are we supposed to do with all this sand?"

"Walk on it."

"Or build an epic sand-keep that foes will fear to tread on!"

At that, Cassandra had leveled her gaze at me until I'd rolled my eyes and left her by the fire, instead choosing to take Fen'Harel down into the Oasis for a quick drink. Within the bowl of the submerged eden, amongst roils and waves of sand, the moonlight shimmers gently off the water, the branches of a willow tree dipping dangerously low to tease the surface and send out endless ripples. I curl up in the crook of one of the roots, watching Fen'Harel snort, look around, then lower his horned and spiked head once again.

The dracolisk scared the shit out of damn near everyone the moment it was brought to Skyhold. Master Dennet was barely able to contend with its wild spirit, cursing about how he 'signed up for horses, not fucking demons' as the mount bucked and galloped its way from one end of the holding pen to the other, restless, aggravated, infuriated.

Upon seeing his form when walking across the main yard-blue upon yellow with plates and shallow spikes adorning any spare skin-I had almost immediately known what I was to name him. The dracolisk stopped his bucking when he singled out me from the crowd. In his very posture, I could tell there was no time, no room for hesitance, so I slipped over the fence and approached the calculating mount.

And slowly, ever so slowly, I merely held up a hand, palm out, waiting. He took his time, taking one hoof forward, then another until all that separated us was the distance of our species.

The crowd that had gathered had fallen silent. No one dared move.

The dracolisk allowed me to close that distance, trusting me on my own, believing that I would make the final step after he had made so many. When my hand finally rested upon his smooth, leathery skin, a name manifested on my lips that sent a huff of pleased air through his nostrils, and a single hoof stamped the ground.

"Fen'Harel."

For most, I had to explain the name, and by the fourth inquiry I had my words down to a science: "Fen'Harel means Dread Wolf. He's a god of trouble and rebellion among the Dalish. No, I don't worship them. I just thought it fit."

Of all the people to find my choice in name odd, the one to protest loudest without a single word was Solas. He wanted nothing to do with the 'thing', while even Varric had found the courage to stand within three feet of my mount.

"Come here, bae-bae." I say, reaching a hand out to Fen'harel. He snorts but trots over, nuzzling my palm. "You don't mind the heat, do you?"

He huffs and shakes his head.

"The Clan used to pass through a forest in the Marches where the trees trapped in heat, leaving everything thick and humid. I loved that place...the rest would complain about the heat, but truly it was not so bad."

Fen'harel snorts again, and I laugh.

"Maker...I'm talking to a dracolisk."

From around the willow, a new voice slides into the night. "A very intelligent animal, no doubt." I don't start, recognizing the voice, and yet Fen'harel growls. I let him wander towards the water again as Solas joins me, seating himself carefully on the roots.

Part of me had always wondered how Solas could manage to seem so uncomfortable in almost any and every situation. Of course, you wouldn't know this just by looking at him: the elf always seemed confident, calm, and pulled together so tightly that nothing would ever unwind that tight facade. The way Solas spoke never wavered from person to person; perhaps for some the words would be more concise, but barely, and only enough to make you consider leaving him be. His gaze was always level, steady, eyes squinting with curiosity on occasion,nut rarely with surprise.

There were cracks in his appearance, though: a rare quickness of tongue that made you believe even he was prone to impulse; the pitch of his sentence, a deeper tone meaning he either didn't care or detested something within the vicinity, while higher pitches were reserved for jokes and those he truly found fascinating.

Because that was the thing with Solas: you never quite felt like a friend. The pinnacle of your existence always rested at _fascinating_.

"It seems your distaste for one another is mutual, Solas." I smirk, gesturing to Fen'Harel. "But yes, he is intelligent."

"It is a rare thing to find such untampered spirit nowadays...I can appreciate that where it appears, even if I do not enjoy the medium."

Giving him a sideways glance, I observe the depth of his voice. "It is the name, isn't it?"

"The elves have a pantheon of gods." He supplies in lieu of an answer.

I frown, feeling suddenly like a child who has displeased her nanny. "And I just _had_ to choose the worst god of them all." My tone is mocking, and Solas raises an eyebrow. "Well, I couldn't rightly name him after the Mother of the Halla, now could I? There isn't a nurturing bone in that beast's body where I'm not concerned."

"Then name him something in the common tongue." He quips.

"I am calling him the Dread Wolf, and I fail to see why you take issue with that."

Sighing, Solas finally relaxes. "I do not mean to question you, _Lethallan_. There are simply better things to call him other than 'the Dread Wolf'."

"You consider it a bad omen?" I guess.

Solas scoffs to some joke I haven't made. "Of a sort, but it is no matter. I am sure the Dread Wolf will not strike you down unless you give him reason to."

"I appreciate that."

By the water, Fen'Harel raises his head and snorts, suddenly turning towards us. My blood flows just that much faster. Thinking a phoenix or gurn might be approaching, I reach for Sister and slowly stand. Solas makes to move, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

Cole appears around the trunk of the willow tree, a letter in his hand.

"I'm sorry I scared you."

Seeing my relief, Fen'Harel lowers his head once again, and I set Sister down. "You just put me on high alert, that's all. What do you need, da'sa?"

"A messenger arrived with a letter, and she didn't know where you were, but I did so I brought it to you. Here." Cole hands me a sealed message, then looks at Solas. "You don't like her horse."

"It is hardly a horse, Cole." Solas mutters, rising. "I'll leave you to your work, Inquisitor. Come now." With a gentle, guiding touch, Solas leads Cole up the slope of the oasis.

I return to my spot amongst the roots and break the seal on the letter. The familiar, blocky, thick handwriting of Cullen greets me.

_Inquisitor,_

_Our forces have been stationed near Adamant until your arrival. The armies are ready to march at your word. Our last scout report named you at a day out from our location, so we will begin mobilizing Thursday morning in anticipation. _

_The siege equipment the Ambassador procured seems well suited to the task of leveling ancient walls. Those able of your inner circle have joined us by now. Hawke and Stroud arrived a day ago with your latest message, and to address your concern: I will see to the protection of any Mages who fight with us myself; not one will fall to Corypheus' demon army while under my watch._

_On a note regarding morale, your discovery at the ritual tower (of hopes and dreams) in the Approach hit our men hard; the Wardens are still a meaningful symbol to many of them so soon after the Fifth Blight. Should we be able, any Grey Wardens salvageable after Adamant would be valuable to both morale, and the Inquisition's forces-providing that what is occurring in Adamant isn't as sinister as it appears._

_Leliana has asked me to inform you that your 'conniving pet' managed to stow away in one of our wagons that recently left Skyhold, and he was found antagonizing a few of her scouts shortly after his arrival. It appears your mabari did not want to be left out while you were saving the world, and I will keep an eye on Da'mi until he can be returned to either you, or Skyhold._

_Oh, and Hollyn? After all this, there will be quite a few reports for both of us to fill out, no matter what happens. Should you feel the need to use your bed as a workspace, do remember where you are always welcome._

_~Commander Cullen_

The last two paragraphs-and the ritual tower of hopes and dreams-put a smile on my face that stays there even as I gather Fen'Harel and we make our way back to camp.

* * *

><p>AN: *does an irony dance* Ta-da!

Thank-you for reading. Any feedback is appreciated!


	24. Twenty-Four: Twist

_"Hollyn. Did you really think no one would notice?"_

/*/

The bridge beneath starts to give way; one brick, then another, then another until I have enough sense to grab Cassandra by the pauldron and yank her up with me. Varric has already begun following Hawke and Stroud at a dead sprint when the first cacophonous groan tumbles from the ancient stone and a massive chunk to our left falls into the abyss below.

"Move!" I shout, shoving Cass ahead. Another block collapses, closer. Behind me, a shout. Cole stumbles and clings to the loose stone at the edge. I lunge back to grab him.

Hawke screams up ahead. As I reach for Cole, the creak and protest of stone beneath us sounds. My heart rushes into my throat as we all begin to fall. Far below, past the tumble of rubble and stone lies thin, tenuous green line. The mark on my hand sings, so I flip midair, reaching, searching, seeking until _there_!

Just before we hit the ground, I tear the veil asunder.

/*/

_"Soon. Soon, they will all know, and then what? Will they want a dangerous mutt as their Herald?"_

/*/

"The giant nightmare demon Erimond was trying to summon?" Varric inquires.

"Yes."

"It's here?"

"Yes."

"Guarding the rift?"

"Yes."

"Well...shit."

The manifestation of the Divine practically ignores Varric, burning bright against this water-logged piece of the fade; all jagged edges and twisting paths. She blinks, as if waiting for a reaction from everyone else. Behind me, Hawke and Stroud begin to bicker over the Wardens we saw in my memory; Cole paces in agitation, and Cassandra tries to soothe him with a word every now and then.

But I remain silent, consumed by the task of drawing on every fraction of ascendancy left within my soul, intent on letting nothing out. The memories swirl in my broken mind, tugging with fear at every emotion - _any_ emotion - all tainted with the Nightmare's touch; all trying and failing to break the control the Dalish set into me so long ago.

But life would would be so much easier if I simply let go and gave into the memories; if I let the world know my secret, rather than maintain my roguish demeanor. It would be simpler to lift the cloak; so much, much easier to stop this damn facade and be both; so much simpler to _burn_ in a shadow, rather than hide with no light.

Cole's shaking hand lays gently on my arm, and I turn to him.

"Hollyn?" He asks softly, concerned even while he shakes and shudders in his own personal terror. Cole reaches for my hand-the hand with the mark.

The mark I shouldn't have. This accident that only occurred because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or was it the right place at the right time? I used to know.

"Don't worry, da'sa." I retract my marked hand and give Cole a gentle smile. "It doesn't matter how I got this, or who gave it to me. What matters is that I can help. We will be alright."

And I believe me, even as I whip around to scold Hawke and Stroud like two bickering children.

"Andraste's tits, would you two please shut-up?!"

/*/

_"You will hurt them. Burn them. Lose control and flame, catching your carefully crafted meeting ground in a conflagration."_

/*/

"I will not!" I shout as Sister sinks into the Nightmare's back. I drag myself up the demon's body, Brother joining his sibling, both dual-blades embedded up to their grips. The demon claws with his tendrils, catching my armor, ripping into my skin, but each swipe is weaker than the last as I hold on. Black ichor seeps forth when the Nightmare finally screams and falls, coating my hands and face, an extra layer atop my own blood.

"I will not." I say when I shake my head as Stroud returns to fight the Nightmare's pet, leaving the rift open for Hawke and I. There is no time for regrets. We leap through, landing in the center of Adamant, amongst piles of dust, bodies, and Grey Warden and Inquisition soldiers, every pair of eyes shining with relief as Varric, Vivienne and Cassandra rush over to pick us up.

"I will not..." I whisper once the Wardens are conscripted to the Inquisition. The events in the Fade begin to pass even as I stand there, one woman amongst hundreds, their strong, proud, unbreakable edifice of an Inquisitor. Once the main crowd has dispersed, I glance forlornly down at the mark gracing my hand. This mark that I have, be it by the grace of the Maker, or by circumstance.

"I will not."

But I don't believe me.


	25. Twenty-Five: Split

"_You see this?! I've already lost one daughter to those bastards, I will not lose another!"_

"_Marc, stop! She couldn't have known!"_

"_This comes from your blood, damnit!"_

"_We have to do something other than yell, love. She's terrified already."_

_The little girl's eyes are two sizes too big for her face; tiny hands shake; from the other room, her elder brother gasps in pain. At this, she whimpers, places the tiny hands over slightly pointed ears, shutting those big green eyes tight and sinking down the wall until her dress pools around her on the floor. Her crying already done, she simply rests her delicate features onto her knees. I crouch, brush a lock of deep red hair behind those odd ears, then look to the voices._

_In the kitchen, her parents sit at a modest table, wits frayed and options lost. The Mamae, a tall elven woman with fire-kissed hair, hides a face that should otherwise show blue eyes and feminine features. The Father, a human male, stares over the woman's shoulder at the wall, runs a hand through black hair and then swipes the back of it over green eyes._

_I trail into the room, standing in the doorway between them and the young girl. Charred, hand-shaped scars, freshly cut into the table by inexperience and horror, are still warm to the touch._

"_The Dalish." Mamae whispers._

"_Laurell, we can't-"_

"_What other choice do we have?! I will not send her to some abusive circle, with dangerous Templars!" Her voice breaks. "The Lavellan clan camps here this time of year, not three days out in the forest. Magic does not run in their blood, so they might be looking for a First for Keeper Deshanna."_

_The Dalish? The girl has heard of them; knows her weak connection to them through Mamae, but living with them could never be an option. Father wouldn't allow it._

_We both look up, her from her knees and me from the scarred table. And we see Father's face. The look in his eyes - the transparent verdict, a mix of anger and sadness - takes away our breath._

* * *

><p>I wake up gasping, white sheets tangled around my limbs, moonlight pouring into my room through the open doors. The dream still lingers, even as I gather up the purple quilt and walk on trembling legs to the balcony, breathing in the cool summer air that the mountains bestow upon Thedas this time of year. A storm brews within my heart, the Nightmare alive even though I'd sent a dagger through its heart myself.<p>

Everything is too cold, too warm. Heat pulls in one direction, chill pulls in another, and I am left in the middle, shaking, fighting, unsure if I can fight both. Which would do the least damage if I were to give in?

My hands shake. I place them over slightly pointed ears, shutting green eyes tight and sliding down the stone wall until the quilt pools around me on the floor. My pride blocking the tears, I simply rest delicate features on trembling knees. I stay there until the morning sun washes over Skyhold, the first rays brushing my hair with a delicate, childlike hand.


	26. Twenty-Six: Pull

Sleepless nights have become more common since returning from Adamant, and for most of them I situate myself on the floor beside Da'mi and work, reading reports and answering letters. Tonight, I was fully prepared to do exactly that until I caught the flickering of candles through a window on the far side of the keep, past my open balcony doors; a singular light marring an otherwise peaceful, dark vista, and there was only one other person who could be up at such an obscene hour.

So, I ventured towards the light.

Any logical reasoning would declare that I shouldn't be here; that I shouldn't be near anyone until I get my shit together; until I put a cap on my memories; until I find a way to get the Nightmare out of my head; until I determine whether my mind is in danger of burning or freezing, because I can't tell which is scarier to succumb to.

And perhaps the most confusing bit of all that the place I chose spend this sleepless night in is Cullen's office. All of Skyhold knows that he often works late, burning candles down to their wick and then replacing them anew several times in one sitting. He had offered me a place here before; but why would I choose tonight to take him up on that offer, curled up in the big leather chair opposite his desk and pushed into the corner, my purple quilt wrapped around me like a child, reports on my lap?

But the large leather chair is warm, and the purple quilt around my knees is warmer, and although the night is warm_ish_, I find my fingers to be frozen, shaking from lack of sleep as I set down my quill to flex the joints.

Cullen looks up from his desk, looking as tired as I feel. Dark circles draw under his eyes, making them a dull ale color, rather than sparkling gold. "Are you tired, Hollyn?"

"No." I slowly shake my head at the lie. "Yes. I-I don't know. There's still all this paperwork to do, and if I were to try and sleep it wouldn't be peaceful and-" Realizing what I've said, I find enough sense to shut up.

Cullen sets a stack of papers to the side, standing. "You're not sleeping well?" Momentarily, he stretches, his tunic lifting up to reveal just a thin strip of pale skin. I avert my tired eyes, not willing to tempt any sleep deprived bad judgement.

"Not particularly." I answer in what I hope is a tone that will end the topic.

Cullen seems to understand and gestures me over. I push the quilt off and rise, taking a quick moment to adjust the nightdress gifted to me by Vivienne because 'an inquisitor should sleep in something better than an old shirt'. The blue silk certainly is an upgrade from off-white cotton, but still the hem falls to my knees and the sleeves are short so as not to hinder movement; a change, but for the better.

"What do you have there?" I ask, peering over Cullen's desk as he rifles through a drawer. He glances up and smirks, withdrawing two glasses and an amber bottle of spirits from within a false book, the center pages cut out to allow for storage. "Damn, that's clever. Where did you learn that?"

"The tranquil in Ferelden's circle used to brew, and the mages would use this trick to hide the alcohol." Cullen twists the cork out of the decanter with a small 'pop' and pours two glasses. "More than once I witnessed a templar open a book for a bit of reading, only to be assaulted by a half-empty bottle. Humorous, but a waste of perfectly good drink."

"I had no idea that..." I shake my head, taking the offered drink and swirling the liquid in the glass. "Anyway, thank-you. But should I be concerned?"

After a sip, Cullen raises his brow. "About?"

"Well, I can't have a drunk for a commander, now can I?"

"Oh," He smirks at me, sitting back down. Without a real thought, I perch on the edge of his desk, feet dangling just off the ground. "You needn't worry. I only use this when the pain truly becomes too much; takes the edge off."

"You're in pain often?" I carefully ask, finally taking a sip of the drink. It slides down my throat smoothly, tasting like honey with a kick, pooling into warmth within my belly. Considering the state I'm in, I resolve to not drink too much more. The last thing I need is to be sleep deprived, mentally at war with myself, _and_ tipsy, all in my Commander's office.

Cullen waits until I look back at him to answer. "I can endure it."

The tone stands out; he has the same stubborn look in his eyes, the same firm set to his jaw, but all of that would mean nothing without the resolved pitch to his voice as the day I first asked him this question.

That day, I didn't push. Tonight, I do. "That's not an answer, Cullen."

He frowns, closing his eyes, and for a moment I think he is going to tell me to leave. I set my barely touched drink down on his desk and move to hop off.

"Yes."

Gold eyes stare at the floor, elbows set on knees and a hand running over his chin. Cullen looks so tired; so weary and very, very done with all of this, but he still tilts his head away when I stand, unable to meet my gaze.

Despite the war of cold and flame shaking my hands and slowly peeling away at my mind, I kneel next to his chair, resting my chin on the arm and spreading a hand over his knee. Beneath, below a layer of fabric, his skin is warm, heated and nearly burning, but it cools under my touch.

The war in my mind stops and it suddenly becomes all too clear why I chose to curl up in this office, rather than my own quarters.

"Thank-you." I whisper.

Reluctantly, Cullen looks down at me. "For?"

"Keeping your word." Absently, my thumb runs along his knee, fidgeting with the minor omission. "You said you would come to me with things like this."

"I suppose I did."

I follow his furrowed gaze to my hand on his knee; a single point of contact that somehow manages so much relief in the span of a few finger-lengths. Despite that gaze, I don't want to leave this quiet; don't want to return to an internal battlefield; to a war I am slowly losing; slowly retreating from.

I have to, though. So I brace myself, closing my eyes, then move to stand.

A warm hand covers mine. "Anything you would like to share, Hollyn?"

_Now_. I could tell him now and everything would be fine. Contact is a respite, but verbal knowledge could be a permanent cove to dock in consistently; a pit to store the fire, or a cabin to shelter from the blizzard.

"Not tonight, Commander."

I release his hand, resigned to my battle, leaving the issue exactly as it should be, despite the broken promise: Mine.


End file.
